A House Divided
by Elanor87
Summary: AU: It has been said that a house divided against itself cannot stand-and the Capitol agrees. Can Peeta and Katniss break through the strict segregation laws that polarize Panem? To do so Peeta must first find a way to shatter the walls around Katniss' heart.
1. Chapter 1

Everyone knows that Merchants are superior to Seam. It is a fact universally accepted. Seam rats possess substandard intellect and judgment, they are unhygienic and vulgar, they breed leagues of filthy, ill mannered children—it's not they're fault, of course, they are _Seam_, uncouth by nature. It's a pity, but what can be done? This is the way it is. The way it always _has _been.

It is impossible to _love _a Seam rat said my mother that day when I came home from kindergarten and told her about the girl, the one with a voice like a Mockingjay. "You better clean out your ears, boy!" she said, striking me hard on the sides of my head so that stars danced in front of my eyes. But from that day on, impossible as it might be, I never stopped thinking about her. Not once.

Merchants are direct descendants of the Capitol elite, Capitol blood runs in their veins, and nothing, _nothing,_ is more important than protecting that purity. Seam vermin must be controlled, reminded of Merchant superiority, but this shouldn't be too hard, claimed the Capitol—Seam are subservient by nature. "Why? What makes us better than the Seam?" I once asked after mother had stormed out and my father was applying a cold compress to the angry purple welt across my cheek. I was thinking of the girl with the braid and the hollow cheeks and that haunted look in her eyes before I threw her the bread, as if she were already dead and watching her wasted body from above. The baker's eyes grew sad as he wrapped his strong arms around me and said, "Don't ask such questions, son. The Peacekeepers are armed with worse than a rolling pin."

The years rolled by and I grew up into a sturdy young man with broad shoulders and a head of tousled, blond curls. By my sixteenth year several pairs of blue eyes probably found me attractive, but there was only one pair of eyes that I was interested in, and hers were slate gray. They rarely flicker my way and yet sometimes when I am least expecting it they suddenly lock on my own with such fierce intensity that I feel as if my insides have turned into molten lava. Like today when she happened to catch me looking at her on the Seam side of the school cafeteria. Her expression—ranging from bewilderment, to fear, to anger—was so unsettling that I immediately dropped my eyes as if I had been burned.

I hadn't meant to stare, but I could see that all she had for lunch was a handful of sunflower seeds that she was chewing on slowly as if to simulate the feeling of eating an actual meal. She wears oversized shirts to hide it, but I can tell she is starving. I set down my own half eaten turkey sandwich in disgust, wishing I could give her some food, give her anything…give her _everything. _But even if she would accept something from me (which she _wouldn't,_ I remind myself firmly), I am acutely aware of the patrolling eyes of my Merchant classmates. They would never let something like that go, it would be all over the school in a matter of minutes. It's not that I care what they said about _me, _but I know that such gossip could ruin Katniss Everdeen. A person of Seam birth can be publically beaten for "inappropriate fraternization" with a Merchant. I grind my teeth in frustration. Can there be any pain greater than forbidden love?

"Hey Mellark!" It's my friend and fellow wrestler, Anselm Ender. I shake myself out of my reverie.

"Oh, hey, what's up?"

"I've been calling your name for five minutes, what's up with _you?_ Sometimes it's like you're on another planet, man." Anselm slides into the seat beside me and slaps me on the back jovially. "I _said_ are you ready for the big match tomorrow? Think you'll take over your bro's title this year?"

My group of friends has assembled around the table forming a blue-eyed, blonde-haired barrier that obscures my view of Katniss' solitary luncheon, but it's probably for the best. My not so subtle staring is going to get me, or worse yet, _her _into trouble.

"Of_ course_ he will, Anselm!" shrills Dorna Mills, scooting up so close to me on the bench that she is practically sitting in my lap. Dorna's father owns the District 12 branch of Capitol Coal and has made millions by exploiting Seam laborers, the only citizens in the District willing to risk their lives in the old, unstable mineshafts. Most people would call her a good catch, I would call her an affront to the human race.

Artfully extracting myself from Dorna's grasp, I try to focus on wrestling. I've been way to distracted lately and I think my friends are starting to notice. "We'll see about it," I say. "I'm going up against Caius though, he'll be a tough one to beat."

"I would love to see that dirt bag go down," says Anselm vehemently. I grin back at him. This is why we are friends.

"Well, if bags of dirt are anything like bags of flour I'd say I have a shot at it."

Everyone laughs, but Delly Cartwright shakes her ringlets sadly. "I wonder what makes him so mean though," she muses and I follow her eyes over to where Caius is intimidating a pig-tailed little girl from the Seam. "Maybe he has a hard home life."

Trust Delly to try to worm out the good in someone, even someone who spends the majority of his time knocking goodness down and stealing its lunch money.

Tadd, the grocer's son, throws a French fry at Delly. "Bad home life my ass! Next time that maniac sticks a snake down the back of your shirt don't expect me to save you."

Delly flicks a grape back at him and does her best to scowl but she, unlike some people I know, fails miserably at it.

As we clear our trays and make our way to our next class Anselm and Tadd fall back into conversation about the upcoming wrestling match, but I feel my mind wandering once again. The lunchroom is not the only thing that is segregated at school. There are separate bathrooms for Seam and Merchants, separate desks, separate water fountains, hell, I think there would be separate school buildings if District 12 could just find the funding. Or perhaps the Capitol wants to keep us in one building on purpose, that way the Seam kids are subjected to nearly constant teasing and degradation, a perfect reminder that they are considered lower than dirt in Panem. _A house divided cannot stand: _It's a saying I heard somewhere, and it certainly rings true here in the district. Why should the Capitol waste its time and resources subduing all of us when we're perfectly happy to do their job for them? All they had to do was stick the wedge between us and we drove it in up to the hilt.

We stop for moment to let Delly grab her history book out of her locker and I notice that the Seam water fountain is so mangled that it looks almost impossible to drink out of. While we're idling there a scruffy looking Seam kid sidles up to the spigot on the tiptoes of his oversized sneakers, but no matter how he twists his head he can't seem to reach the trickle of water. Without thinking I walk over and tousle the kid's hair.

"Hey there little guy, need a boost?" I hoist him up, wincing when I realize that I can feel his ribs through his worn t-shirt. The kid takes a couple greedy gulps of water and I wonder if he actually had anything for lunch to wash down.

Suddenly I hear another of Dorna's signature shrieks. "Eww, Peeta, what are you doing with that little rat?"

The kid hears and squirms out of my grasp at lightning speed. He gapes up at my blond hair and carefully pressed clothing, realization dawning on him.

"Th-thank you sir," he stammers before streaking off down the hallway, obviously terrified.

"What'd you do that for?" I say angrily, rounding on Dorna.

"You don't know where it's _been," _says Dorna impishly, basking in the titters of laughter that break out from the gang of merchants around us. "Don't expect to hold my hand now, Peeta," she says, bumping me with her hip flirtatiously.

I make a mental note to help more Seam kids use the water fountain.

* * *

The last lesson of the day is history, but the only historical event I can ever focus on is that fateful day at the beginning of this year when Mr. Finchly decided to seat Katniss Everdeen directly behind me. Sometimes I can feel her eyes boring into my skull so intensely that I swear I'm going to leave the lesson with a lobotomy. I spend most of my time doodling in the margins of my notebooks (you guessed it, sketches of _her)_ and the rest of the time I spend devising complicated strategies for turning around in my seat to catch a glimpse of her. Said "strategies" have only served to get me detention for suspected cheating and an egg-sized lump on the back of my head from when I leaned back too far in my chair.

Since she's already caught me looking once today I decide to play it cool and keep my eyes down. Instead I try to imagine Katniss in the forest. I know she's been poaching there since she was about 12 years old and her father disappeared. No one knows exactly what happened, I'm not even sure if Katniss does, but one night the whole town woke up to the sounds of gunshots and the smell of fire from the Seam. I remember standing on the bakery steps watching the flames lick the sky and praying to God that she was all right. But she wasn't. And she isn't. The carefree little girl who sang so sweetly at the assembly blew away like ash on the wind.

Soon after I threw her those loaves of charring bread I noticed a bit of color return to her cheeks, and her arms, though still thin, began to look less skeletal. A few weeks later she showed up at our back door with a squirrel shot clean through the eye. My father paid her double its worth.

I slide a rubber band off a roll of paper in my satchel and twist it between my fingers, imagining that it's bowstring. How does she do it? I wonder, trying to imagine aiming an arrow into the trees, getting the squirrel in my sights, pulling back on the string and—_twang! _To my dismay the rubber band springs from my fingers and into the air. Face flushing, I slouch down in my seat, hoping that Mr. Finchly hasn't seen. He hasn't. But Dorna has. The band hit her between the shoulder blades and from the coy smile she's shooting me, I'm assuming she's interpreted this as an act of flirtation. I smile weakly at her and wish fervently that Katniss would just send a real arrow through the back of my head and end it all now.

Thankfully, the bell rings right on cue and I spring from my seat, hoping to make a break for the door before Dorna can pounce on me. I'm nearly there when I notice a familiar-looking tan glove lying on the floor and as I'm bending down to pick it up, it suddenly dawns on me where I've seen it before. _There is a God!_ I think feverishly. _It's hers. _I see her lithe frame about to step out into the teeming corridors and without thinking I launch myself at the door, catching her just into time to tap her on the shoulder and utter her name as a strangled sort of yelp, "Katniss!" She whirls around, fists raised, eyes narrowed, ready for attack.

"Woah!" I gasp, throwing my hands out defensively. "Sorry, it's just you—you dropped this." I hold out the worn, leather glove to her as a peace offering.

Her eyes dart from the glove to my face and I see a flicker of recognition. "You," she whispers in surprise. She shakes her head violently as if to erase what she's just said. "I mean, thank you."

Our eyes lock for the second time that day, and feeling emboldened by my good fortune with the glove, I'm about to open my mouth and do the one thing I've been dying to do since the ripe old age of five—_talk _to Katniss Everdeen. Unfortunately, it seems that fate can only bestow so much luck in one day because at just that blissful moment Dorna decides to swoop down on me like a perfectly coiffed, over-perfumed bird of prey.

The spell is broken. Katniss snaps back into action immediately, snatches the glove from my sweaty palms so quickly that I barely feel it leave my grasp, and disappears into a throng of guffawing 10th years.

But even as Dorna grabs my arm (practically yanking it out of its socket) and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek, I can't contain the goofy smile breaking out over my face.

"Thank you," I whisper to myself, feeling a tingling sensation spreading from my fingers to my toes.

"What's that?" says Dorna absentmindedly.

"Nothing," I say.

_Something, _I think.


	2. Chapter 2

The whole week I try to get up the nerve to say something to her again, but I keep convincing myself that the moment is not quite right. Either there are too many people around, or she's scowling particularly fiercely that day, or my shoelaces are untied or whatever. There's always an excuse. Being a coward is becoming my fulltime job, which is quite exhausting considering how taxing my real job has been lately. Father hasn't been feeling well, the doctors say it's his heart and he's supposed to take it easy. My oldest brother Bannock and I have been taking on as many extra shifts as possible to try and ease the burden, but father keeps inventing pretexts for slipping into the bakery and kneading out a couple of loaves of marble rye or tempering chocolate for pastries. A baker belongs in the kitchen, he says when we catch him and chase him out with the rolling pin.

Dad's a gentle soul, always sneaking butter cookies to the little Seam kids with their dirty noses pressed up longingly against the bakery window, and offering Katniss and Gale excellent trades on fresh game. When mother catches him there's hell to pay, but dad seems to be growing bolder as he ages, as if he's hoping to make amends for all the times he never protected us kids from her rages when we were young. Sometimes I think of the times I spent hiding in the back of the pantry behind the barrels of apples nursing a bloody nose and crying silently into old burlap flour sacks and I'm so mad at him I could scream. _Why didn't he do anything to stop her? _But the fact is that father isn't meant for conflict—it's not in his nature. I guess he did the best he could.

Speaking of dad…

"You're supposed to be resting old man," sighs Bannock, smacking the cookie cutter out of dad's hand for the third time this morning.

"I know, I know, I just don't like seeing you two working so hard. Wanted things to be different for you boys than it was for me. You know _my _father used to have this rule—"

"Five loaves before the cock crows," chant Bannock and me together, rolling our eyes at dad. How many times have we heard that one before?

"Yeah, yeah, we know. But we've really got it, ok dad? Besides, I can't miss my finger workout, can I?" I extract my hands from the lump of dough I'm kneading and flex my fingers dramatically. "Don't want any flabby thumbs."

Usually dad is quick to laugh, but today he just frowns at my joke, his broad shoulders slumped, a flicker of sadness in his cornflower blue eyes. I continue to knead the sourdough—not too much, just enough to release the gluten—just like dad taught me, and a few minutes later we hear mom calling us to breakfast. After slipping the last batch of croissants into the oven, we pad up the stairs to our cramped kitchen. Aldo, my middle brother, is already seated at the table and stuffing himself with stale toast slathered in marmalade.

"Guess you're hungry from all your hard work this morning, huh Al," says Bannock ironically, sinking into a wicker-backed chair that looks too spindly to support his mass. Bannock is a few years older than me and is built like a tank.

Aldo rolls his eyes and chews his food more loudly in defiance. He knows he'll get away with missing his shift in the bakery. He's mother's favorite.

"Aldo needs his sleep," sniffs mother. "I can't have _all _my sons slaving away like Seam."

Mother is from old money and before she married my father she had never worked a day in her life. Gran and grandpa live in an enormous, imposing manor on the far edge of town where they host lavish parties that draw flocks of bejeweled, oddly-clothed Capitol people. Not the _top_ echelon of society, says my mother, _they _never deign to show their faces in District 12, but still, they are better society than the average Merchant. Gran has a veritable platoon of Seam servants who she rules with an iron fist. I imagine that most of them would rather gnaw off their own arms than remain in her employ, but the thought of the empty stomachs of loved ones at home makes them endure it. Working for Gran is still probably better than going down in the mines, which is the only other career option for Seam in District 12.

I look at Aldo with his light blond, almost white, hair and his squinty blue eyes. Unlike Bannock and me who are broad shouldered but lean, he is shorter and stockier, with arms that seem just a little too long for his body. He looks just like mother and has unfortunately inherited all of her _best _qualities as well: a nasty temper, penchant for gossip, and disdainful, superior attitude. Bannock and I are like dad. I've never heard Bannock say anything truly unkind in his life, the most he'll ever do is gently rib Aldo, and Al certainly deserves worse. Since I've always been mother's scapegoat (she never wanted a third son), it was always Bannock who came to my rescue when she was having one of her days. I know my oldest brother took quite a few blows for me over the years and there's a large, ridged burn scar on his left forearm that he swears is from trying to take something out of the Dutch oven without the wooden peel, but I remember how mother looked that day… wild and angry and raging.

Delly Cartwright says Aldo is mean because he's jealous, and maybe she is right. Bannock and I have never had trouble making friends, we smile easily, crack jokes with aplomb, and we're athletic to boot. Al on the other hand is morose and condescending and has never showed any aptitude for wrestling or any other sport for that matter. His social circle is mostly limited to Dirk Maddof and Blyth Anderson, two weak-willed elitists from old money, who follow Aldo around waiting for instructions on how to be as aloof as possible.

"Peeta," comes my mother's voice from across the table. "Don't slouch like that at the table. Gran's Fall Formal is coming up and I can't have you embarrassing me in front of the company."

I slide up in my chair so that my back is ramrod straight and try not to glare. The Fall Formal—I had almost forgotten—a never-ending evening of frivolous conversation and simpering formalities with a group of people with more hair product than brains. And I know what mother will say next. Here we go in three…two…

"Dorna will be there you know."

One. There it is.

"Don't look at me like that young man! You would do well not to scoff at such an excellent match. Think of what her family's connections could do for you!" she says shrilly.

You mean do for _you_, I think to myself. I know mother is imagining the boost in her social standing that me becoming attached to Dorna would lend her. I hastily stuff the last crust of bread in my mouth and move as if to leave the table, but mother is not finished.

"Sit down, you ungrateful boy! Don't you know to listen when I'm speaking to you? I expect to see you with her at the Formal—at least three dances—do you understand me? I lost _my _chances at a good marriage connection and I will not permit _you _to do the same."

My father shifts uncomfortably in his too-small chair. It's an obvious dig at him. Mother was set to marry Macon Dreer, the wealthy son of the District Bank empire, but he ran off with the florist's daughter at the last moment and mother had to settle on her backup. Of course, she's not the only one who settled. Dad had his eye on Otilia Swift… soon to be Otilia Everdeen.

Otilia was Seam. Haven't I said before that my father and I are a lot alike? Only I'm not going to make the same mistake he did. I'm not going to seal myself into a loveless marriage because the Capitol thinks it can dictate who I can and cannot associate with.

Mother eventually finishes ranting about my blatant disregard for proper Merchant etiquette and I am allowed to get ready for school. I hurriedly change my clothes, brush my teeth and bound down the stairs, almost slamming into Bannock in my rush. have discovered that if I leave the house at exactly 7:52 I almost always cross paths with Katniss near the Victory Square. Perhaps this makes me a stalker. Yes, I suppose this behavior is basically the dictionary definition of stalking. Honestly, I try not to think about it.

"Woah, little brother! Where's the fire?" says Bannock.

"Sorry, I just don't want to be late for school, you know?" I apologize.

Bannock chuckles. "Sure, you don't want to be late for _school. _Well, I think I saw _school _and her darling little sister pass by when I took out the trash…so you might want to hurry." He gives me a cheeky grin and I blanche.

"Bannock, I—she—please don't tell mom!" I splutter.

"Relax kid, I like Braids. She's got spunk. You better watch out though, I'd imagine girls like her eat softies like you for breakfast."

I sigh in relief at Bannock's words. Maybe I should have confided in him sooner.

Bannock gives me a sad little smile. I know he thinks I'm setting myself up for heartbreak. "Now get out of here before mom finds you and we have to listen to another description of Dorna's bank account!"

* * *

I finally catch up to Katniss by the butcher's shop. Her sister Primrose is skipping along in front of her chattering animatedly and to my chagrin Katniss' hunting partner Gale is on her left. People say they're together, but I'm not so sure it's true. I can tell by his body language that maybe _he _wishes it were true. Katniss, however, looks as aloof as ever and if she can sense his interest in her as more than a friend she doesn't let on. She smiles at him from time to time though. It's a small, half smile, just a quirk of the lips really, but I would give anything to be able to elicit that look from her.

I suddenly see Katniss stiffen as if her hunter's instincts have alerted her to a distant threat and she whirls around. She must have felt my eyes on her! I quickly avert my gaze, trying to feign acute interest in the crumbling concrete wall that surrounds the school, but I know she's caught me looking again because her quirky little smile fades into a scowl and she pulls a protective arm around her little sister. I'm so _stupid. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. I need to talk to her, really talk to her. And soon, because if Katniss weren't Seam, she would probably have a restraining order by now.

* * *

After school I have wrestling practice and I stay late at the gym trying to get in as much training as possible before the big match. With the admonition not to work myself _too_ hard, Anselm left about half an hour ago, so I'm the last one in the locker room. I throw my towel into the laundry and shake the wet hair out of my eyes before heading out into the empty corridor, feeling refreshed from the workout. I'm in such a good mood that I'm even whistling a bit to myself when I suddenly see her braid swing around the corner. Before I can even register what is happening, Katniss has grabbed me by the front of my shirt and slammed me up against the locker with surprising force for someone of such slight stature. "Why are you always following me around—staring at me?" she spits, her face inches from my own.

For the first time in my life I feel utterly tongue-tied. "I—I didn't, um—" I bluster feeling simultaneously exhilarated and terrified by her close proximity.

"Aw, quit your stuttering. I _know_ why. You think I'm easy, don't you Mellark. You Merchant boys are all the same," she accuses, narrowing her eyes at me. "You think I just spread my legs for anybody behind the slag heap, huh?" The unbidden blush that creeps up her cheeks is enough to confirm how absurd a scenario that really is. I feel my face burning with embarrassment and shame. Is this really what she really thinks of me? "I can support my family without… _that_, so—so just forget about it! Ok?"

Her words sting, but not as much as the disgusted look she gives me as she releases my collar from her grip, the same look she might give to something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her shoe. I don't blame her for assuming the worst about me, after all, it's a common practice for lusty teenage Merchants to have their way with Seam girls who are desperate to put a crust of bread on the table, but it hurts all the same.

"Katniss, I…" I begin again, trying to think of a way to set things straight with her, but I stop when I notice the color draining from her face. There is a group of giggling girls rounding the corner and it appears as though Katniss is just now realizing the severity of what she has just done—attacked a Merchant in a public place. She looks at me with wild, round eyes and for the first time I can remember, she looks truly scared.

"Please don't tell anyone," she whispers, looking like a frightened rabbit. It's unnerving to see her like this—almost like rock has suddenly transformed into glass, fragile and transparent—but in a strange way I'm relieved. _So she is human after all…_

"Of course not," I breathe, willing my words to convey how I really feel. _I would never do anything to hurt you_. The giggling grows louder as the girls draw nearer and I realize that this may be my only chance. _Say something you coward!_ I tell myself.

One of the girls drops her pencil case and with an additional shriek of laughter I hear the gang of them bend down to retrieve its scattered contents.

_It's now or never. Do it. Do it!_

"Will you just…meet me tomorrow after school? Behind the old oak tree?" I finally blurt out.

Katniss' eyes widen in surprise and then narrow suspiciously.

"I just want to talk," I assure her. "Please?" I'm trying so hard not to beg.

Her eyes dart over to the approaching Merchant girls and I can tell she feels trapped. I feel terrible for forcing her hand like this, but what choice do I have? If I'm ever going to get to know this girl at all I need to talk her. I have a way with words, or so people tell me, and I'm pinning all my hopes on that fact. Katniss glares at me in a way that makes it perfectly clear that she is not happy about this arrangement, but she nods curtly before disappearing from my side like wind through the grass.

Sighing heavily I turn around and look at the two doorways in front of me. In bold black lettering one is marked "Seam," the other "Merchant." With shame weighing down on me like a one hundred pound sack of flour, I hesitate for just a moment before exiting through the Seam door.

* * *

I check my watch again. 3:15. I've been waiting for 20 minutes now and I don't see Katniss anywhere. It was stupid to get my hopes up anyway, I mean, I practically forced her into this meeting after all. It's pretty obvious that she doesn't really want to talk to me, I think sulkily, kicking a stone through the scraggly grass underneath the oak tree.

And then, just as I'm about to give up and go home, a high, clear voice chimes in from above my head, "What do you want?"

"Gah!" I cry, performing a startled sort of pirouette, which would probably be quite comical if were I not so mortified. My eyes shoot up into the tree branches and there she is, perched comfortably on a low hanging bough, the faintest trace of a smirk etched on her features. "You scared me!" I gasp, running a hand through my hair embarrassedly. "How long have you been up there?"

She shrugs noncommittally.

I decide to make a joke to defuse the tension. "I guess you saw my impressive acrobatic feat just then when you scared the bejeezus out of me. Think I should join the ballet?"

The awkward silence that follows strangles the humor with its bare hands. I suppose jokes are out then, and this make me feel vulnerable because that eliminates half my bag of tricks. Katniss just stares at me from her roost like she's stalking a field mouse and hasn't yet decided whether to pummel it or not. The pale green light filtering down through the leaves causes shadows to dance across her face when the wind blows, and my breath catches in my throat. _She is so beautiful._ Beautiful, and so goddamn intimidating.

"What are you doing up there anyway?" I ask. _How in Panem can she stand still like that, _I wonder. I swear she hasn't even blinked once yet.

"Watching," says Katniss evasively. I rub the back of my neck nervously. "What do you want," she repeats.

I stuff my hands into my pockets and try hard not to feel as if I'm on trial. "Well, I just…" I hesitate and then launch into the speech I had prepared, _have_ had prepared for years. "I think you're interesting and I wanted to talk to you," I begin, grinning sheepishly into the tree. "Maybe we—"

Katniss cuts me off abruptly. "Let's just cut to the chase. I don't have time for this. Look, Mr. Mellark _sir," _she says in a clipped, business-like tone, emphasizing the formal mode of address that Seam citizens are expected to use with Merchants. "I can offer you a large share of venison for the bread."

I am completely and utterly confused. "Katniss, wha—?"

"That should more than cover the expense plus interest," she continues doggedly. "You don't think it's fair?"

"No. I mean—I don't know! What in the world are you talking about?"

"I can have it to you by the end of the week if necessary," she states, dodging my question again.

"Have _what _to me by the end of the week?" I ask exasperatedly. It's like Katniss and I are having two completely different conversations.

Katniss gives me a look like she is trying to explain something to an incorrigible child. "The _venison_. For… the bread you gave me." Her cheeks color for some reason on that last line.

We stare at each other for a fraction of a second before understanding finally dawns me and I recognize her blush as a mark of shame. She thinks I want her to pay me for that bread I gave her all those years ago. I almost laugh because the situation is so absurd, but I know that wounding Katniss' pride is just about the worst move I could make right now.

"_That's _what you're going on about? You don't owe me anything Katniss."

She cocks her head to the side as if she still doesn't quite believe me and I find that I'm developing a rather severe crick in my neck from peering up into the tree branches. _How can she be this thickheaded!_

"Look, would you just come down already?" I finally shout.

Katniss scowls at me, but apparently decides I'm not a threat because she swings off her branch, dangling for a second by her fingertips, and then drops cat-like to the ground. She folds her arms protectively across her chest.

"Thank you," I say emphatically. "Now will you listen to me for a second?"

She nods sullenly.

"I just want to get to know you, ok?"

Her eyes widen—whether in shock or disbelief I can't tell.

"I'm Seam," she posits, once again adopting the tone of voice used with uncomprehending children.

"I know that, and I don't care."

Silence.

"Well?" I prod, feeling my resolve dwindling at her unresponsiveness. I'm usually a great communicator, but coaxing Katniss into a dialogue feels like trying to start a fire with wet matches.

"What do you mean 'get to know me?'' Katniss asks, and the way she knits her eyebrows together and scrunches up her nose in suspicion is so adorable that I forget how frustrating this conversation has become.

I let out a little laugh and shake my head at her. She is obviously severely dyslexic when it comes to reading social cues. "I don't know …well, for example, what's your favorite color?"

She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs as though this is a colossal waste of her time. "Green," she says petulantly.

"Mine's orange," I say with a grin. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

More scowling. And then…a surprise.

"Orange like the tile in the cafeteria?" she demands.

I raise my eyebrows. If I'm not mistaken, Katniss just continued the conversation without my prodding. Small victories, Peeta, small victories.

"No, not so bright. Or so horrible," I add. "More muted, like the sunset."

"Oh." She rocks up and down on the balls of her feet as if she's about to spring off a diving board. "I really have to go now…my sister's waiting for me."

"Right, of course!" _How could I have forgotten about Prim?_ "How about this? How about I'll ask you one question a day, just one, that's it, I swear," I say hurriedly, hardly daring to breathe as she mulls over my proposition. She is chewing the corner of lip like she does when she's thinking hard about something.

"Ok," she says finally. Her tone is begrudging, but her expression is unreadable.

"So you allow it?"

"I'll allow it."

After she leaves it takes me about ten minutes before I can wipe the dumb grin off my face and make my feet move towards home. The wind picks up and I'm feeling so buoyant that I'm surprised I don't blow away on a gust of autumn air.


	3. Chapter 3

I stay up most of the night agonizing over the perfect question to ask her, knowing that I have to start slow and easy so I won't scare her off right off the bat. After all, Katniss promised I could _ask _her questions, she never said anything about answering them.

As I'm folding dough during my morning bakery shift, I decide that the best place to approach her is casually in the crowded corridor so that we're hiding in plain sight as it were. It's highly unlikely that any prying eyes will notice our brief interaction with so much raucous around us. So after history I don't let her out of my sight as we braid our way into the crowd. Katniss is much more adept at moving quickly through the throngs of students, weaving her slender frame through the corridor like a needle through silk. I, on the other hand, end up apologetically stomping on at least three people's feet before clumsily falling in step with her.

"Hi," I pant, trying to control my uneven breathing.

"You walk loud," she says by way of greeting.

Typical Katniss.

"Er, yes, so I've been told. Dad says I've got two left feet, but I'd say I've got two left feet and one of them's a peg leg…" I laugh weakly and trail off because by the way her lips are pressed into an impossibly thin line I can tell she is not amused by my self-deprecating humor. "So…" I continue awkwardly. "How was your day?"

"Is that your question?" she demands

"Huh?"

"Your question. For today. Was that it?"

"Oh! Um, no. I was just making conversation." You know, like a normal human being…

Katniss glowers at me, but up close I can't help but notice the delicate flecks of gold in her left eye that make it almost a shade lighter than the right.

"Ok, so, what's your favorite season?" I ask.

It's an easy question, perfectly innocuous, but she gives me a funny look as if she's remembering something from long ago. "Spring," she says simply and I'm happy enough with a one-word response—it's all I was expecting. That's why it's a surprise when she elaborates. "I like…dandelions," says Katniss. Her scowl falters and she actually looks embarrassed as she stares resolutely at her shoes. I'm not quite sure what to make of this actually, but I decide to chalk it up as a point in my favor.

"Spring is nice," I agree. "But I like Autumn best."

"The colors, right?" My stomach does a flip-flop—_she remembers my favorite color!_

"Yeah, the colors and the cool crisp air. Memories of picking apples with dad when we were kids…"

Katniss frowns. "Autumn means winter is coming."

She doesn't say it, but I immediately understand the significance. Winter means scarcity, hunger, shivering on a woven mat in front of a fire that you're wondering how you'll keep stoked. I feel sick to my stomach.

"You're right, spring is better," I assure her.

Katniss has pressed her lips back together and I can tell she thinks she's said too much. This is enough for one day. If I push more at this point it could ruin everything.

"Well, I'll talk to you later Katniss, ok?"

She nods vaguely looking bemused as I veer off towards the gym and disappear into crowd.

* * *

The next two weeks pass in a sort of euphoric haze. The questions so far may be mundane, but slowly and surely the mystery that is Katniss Everdeen is unraveling before my eyes, making me more hopelessly in love with her than ever—if that is even possible. Because I know we cannot be seen repeatedly together, it takes a lot of creative maneuvering to come up with scenarios where our paths converge in mostly deserted or otherwise secure locations. On Wednesday during biology lab when we're dissecting flat worms I accidentally-on-purpose trip and spill a petri dish on the two of us as I pass by her station on the Seam side of class, and when we're excused to clean ourselves up, I learn that she prefers sunrise over sunset. On Thursday I catch up with her in the library and between the history and philosophy section she tells me that her least favorite chore is feeding Prim's satanic tomcat, Buttercup. Friday at track and field day I nearly pass out trying to catch up with her on the mile run to find out that if she could become any animal it would be an eagle, and I can imagine her soaring high above the soot, and pain, and injustice of the District. Graceful. Untouchable. Free.

The next week I feed a note through the grill in her locker: "What is you're biggest pet peeve?" and when she slips it to me secretly in the corridor with a big smirk on her face I see that her response reads: "When people misuse the word "your." She doesn't even balk when I jab her playfully in the ribs with my elbow, instead she quirks her lips up a bit further so that it's almost a devilish little grin. Is it possible for you heart to actually stop over a girl's smile?

It may just be me, but by the middle of the second week of our daily question and answer sessions it seems to be getting easier to seek Katniss out. Can it be a coincidence that she somehow manages to materialize at just the right moment over and over again? Do I dare let myself believe it?

I've also noticed that with Katniss, as puzzling and guarded as she may be, I never doubt the sincerity of her responses. She is frank almost to a fault. I dated Delly Cartwright for short time last year—a failed attempt to try to forget Katniss' wide set silver eyes and sun-kissed, freckled cheeks—and I could never tell if she actually meant what she said. With other girls it always feels like they're mincing their words, trying to figure out how _I _want them to respond. Katniss, on the other hand, does not beat around the bush.

Sometimes she is so brutally honest that her responses piece me to the core, like the end of this week when I asked her what her least favorite food was.

She had fixed me with a penetrating stare so powerful that I shivered involuntarily and said, "My least favorite food is no food, Mr. Mellark."

* * *

As the end of October grows nearer I can no longer ignore the fact Gran's Fall Formal is fast approaching. Mother has been ragging on me night and day, clucking over the state of my unruly hair and reminding me what a darling, _eligible _young lady Dorna Mills is. Today she has sent me and my father and brother to the tailor's for our suit fittings. It's always kind of comical to see dad and Bannock wearing formal wear because they look so terrible out of place.

"I hate these monkey suits," mutters dad under his breath, tugging at the starchy collar of his dress shirt uncomfortably.

"I hate them too," agrees Bannock. "I'm thinking of feigning tuberculosis the day before the Formal." He coughs dramatically. "How did that sound? Believable?"

Aldo makes an indistinguishable noise in the back of his throat.

"What's that, Al? Didn't quite catch it," I say, grinning at Bannock who is still practicing his coughing fits.

Aldo draws himself up in what he must think is a dignified manner. "It's just that you all would do well to appreciate and honor your social standing. We come from a long line of—"

Bannock cuts him off. "—A long line of snobbish, self-important aristocrats? Yes, I'm aware."

I snicker at the affronted look on Aldo's face. He puffs out his chest. "You are a disgrace to the family!" In his anger Aldo stumbles on the hem of his dress pants and careens into the startled Seam girl who is mopping up in the shop. Her bucket of dirty water splashes Aldo's new outfit. "Would you watch where you're going you little urchin! You've dirtied my suit!" he shouts at her. The girl shrinks back in terror, raising her hands to protect her face as if she's afraid he's going to strike her. I wonder how many times someone has raised a hand to her for her to have developed such an intense instinctual reaction.

"Now Aldo," begins father sternly. "That's no way to treat the little lady."

"Little lady?" scoffs Aldo. "Are you blind? She's _Seam."_ He rounds on the little girl again. "You better hope I don't go to the Peacekeepers about this!"

The girl—she can't be more than seven or eight—begins to cry, her little olive face scrunched up and a curtain of greasy brown hair falling over one of her wide, gray eyes.

I can feel my blood boiling and I must look like I'm about ready to pummel Aldo because Bannock puts a warning hand on my shoulder and shakes his head. "You know it'll get back to mom if you punch his precious face in," he mutters.

I clench my fists in frustration, but I know Bannock is right. Instead I walk over to the girl and hand her a handkerchief.

"Don't cry sweetie," I say gently. "What's your name?"

"B-Bekkah," she chokes. "P-please don't call the Peacekeepers, Sir!"

"No way kiddo, it wasn't your fault. We Mellarks are all extremely clumsy. Dry your tears, ok?"

On the way home Also sidles up to me looking flushed and angry. There is a strange glint in his eyes. "You think you're so better than me, but I know what happens to guys like you. You better watch yourself Peeta, or you and your Seam rat friends are going to pay."

I stiffen at his comment. It's vague, but there's something about the tone of his voice that gives me pause. Does he know something about the friendship that I've struck up with Katniss? He can't. Can he? I decide to play dumb.

"I have no idea what you're going on about, Al. You know that I despise Seam brats just as much as the rest of us," I lie, trying to imitate the tone mother uses when talking about the Seam, but the phrase sounds forced coming out of my mouth, almost like I'm a bad actor reciting lines.

Aldo must recognize it because his smirk widens. The little hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. What does he have on me? I wonder.

* * *

The day of the Fall Formal dawns bright and cool. Dad and I pull out the last few loaves of spiced pumpkin bread and then retreat upstairs to get ready for the event. I am dreading it with every fiber of my being.

As I change out of my bakery uniform and into my dress clothes I wonder what Katniss is doing today. It's Saturday, so she'll probably be out hunting, with _him _of course, I can't help but remembering with a jealous twinge. I wonder if someday when I ask her the question "will you take me into the forest?", she'll respond in the affirmative. Then I remember what she told me in the corridor about how loudly I walk and I realize that my presence would almost certainly cost her a whole day's worth of game. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be anything but a burden to Katniss and I find myself bitterly wishing I could be like Gale to her—a partner, someone she could count on. By the time I've finished dressing and flattening my hair this line of thinking has put me in a foul mood.

We line up for a final inspection in front of mother, and after tightening Bannock's tie so securely that he looks blue in the face and adding a copious amount of styling gel to my hair, she finally declares us fit to be seen in public. Gran has sent a fancy car to take us to the Formal.

* * *

The moment we arrive Gran swoops down on us and links her gnarled arm with mine. She is a tiny, angular woman with short, tightly wound gray ringlets and a pinched mouth that makes her look as if she's perpetually sucking on a sour hard candy. It doesn't seem fair that I have to be both Mother's _least_ favorite son and Gran's _favorite _grandson. Gran mostly leaves Bannock and Aldo alone—to Bannock's delight and Aldo's chagrin.

"How's my darling boy?" she says, smacking her lips against my check. "Every time I see you you're looking taller. I heard about the big wresting win."

"Yes, pretty exciting. I'm still not as good as Bannock though," I say, trying to refocus her attention elsewhere.

"_Nonsense,"_ says Gran, patting my arm adoringly.

Mother scowls at this show of affection. She is a wearing a lurid pink gown with an enormous orchid at the bust. "Well mother, you know our _Aldo _was just elected student president of 'Merchants for a Purer Panem.'"

Gran isn't paying attention. "That's nice dear," she says absently, dragging me into the parlor where the Formal is in full swing.

I catch Bannock's eye and he gestures towards Aldo and Mother, who are looking mutinous, and gives me a thumbs up.

The parlor is teeming with so many colorful, oddly dressed people that it looks more like a menagerie than a ballroom, and when a man walks by me with his face tattooed to look like a reptile, my first impression is only fortified. _How can they consider these outfits attractive?_

Gran is introducing me to her friends and I go through the motions, but my mind has run off elsewhere, to a different ballroom with Katniss is a simple yet elegant silver gown…

"Peeta!" shrieks Gran and I come thumping back down to reality.

"Sorry Gran," I apologize. "I'm just so captivated by the absolutely _stunning _décor. Did you draw up these plans yourself?"

Gran looks mollified by my shameless flattery. "As a matter of fact I did, my dear boy. Now, _as I was saying, _this lovely young lady is Dorna Mills—_heiress to Capitol Coal_," she says significantly.

It's only then that I notice Dorna standing there looking like a meringue in an entirely too fluffy, feathered white dress.

"Peeta, so good to see you," she simpers. "Don't you look handsome tonight."

"Um, you too," I say dully. I know I'm obligated to at least three dances with her or I'll never hear the end of it from mother, so I suppose I might as well get it over with.

"Gran, would you excuse me? I've promised Miss Dorna here I'd dance with her," I say with as much charm as I can muster.

Gran looks elated. "Of _course _dear! You take good care of my grandson, Dorna," she says, winking at her. Dorna giggles maniacally.

This is going to be a _long _night.

After the third dance ends with a flourish from the orchestra, I pry Dorna's hands off my shoulders.

"Want a drink?" I say, dodging her arms, which are snaking back around my neck. "I'm absolutely parched."

"Aw, Peety, don't leave me now, this is my favorite song. It could be _our _song," she whines, her bright pink painted lips forming into a pout.

"Sorry, can't stay! Have to—er—use the little boys room." I start backing off the dance floor and notice a pimply kid from the 11th grade standing nearby. "Look Dorna, you can dance with…" I trail off, having no idea what the guys name is.

"Sims," says the kid in shock, looking like he can hardly believe his luck as I shove him towards Dorna.

"Sims," I repeat, making a beeline for the edge of the dancefloor. "You two have fun!"

I don't stop to see the furious look that Dorna is probably sending me, I just duck through the first door I see and find myself face to face with—

"Katniss!" I gasp, smacking into her and her tray full of champagne glasses.

"Oh!" she cries, startled. "Peet—Mr. Mellark, sir. I didn't see you there."

I hastily grab the tray she is carrying to help her steady the rattling glasses of champagne, but when our fingers accidently brush I nearly drop the whole thing again. I feel my cheeks flush.

"Katniss, what are you doing here?" I ask, still shaken up by this sudden apparition. It feels so surreal to see her standing here in Gran's spotless kitchen.

She doesn't say anything, just gestures to her pleated black dress and the too-frilly white apron tied over it. I recognize it immediately as servant's garb and my heart sinks.

"You're working for Gran?" I ask incredulously.

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Gran?"

"Yeah, my grandmother. You know, pinched face, voice that could curdle milk, nine inch fangs…"

"I didn't know Mrs. Greer was your grandmother," replies Katniss softly.

"Yeah. A real piece of work, isn't she?"

"I don't know…"

"Oh, come on. You know it's true. Don't feel like you have to defend her on my behalf."

"Well…" says Katniss hesitantly. "I do think I saw a forked tail peaking out from under her ball gown…" A ghost of a smile plays across her lips.

I laugh heartily while Katniss looks around furtively as if she's sure someone will have heard her blasphemous remark.

"No, but seriously. You're working here?" I query.

"It's just temporary. Mrs. Greer needed extra help for the party." She pauses here and bites her lip as if she's considering her words carefully. "Prim's sick," she finally whispers.

My stomach clenches. Poor, sweet, little Prim. I know that Katniss' mother is a healer, so if Katniss is here trying to make extra money it must mean that Prim is in bad enough shape to need something special from the apothecary. Something expensive.

"Oh Katniss, I'm so sorry," I say, wishing I could fold her into my arms and comfort her. Unfortunately, I have a feeling that a move like that might earn me a black eye.

"Not your fault," says Katniss thickly.

We stand there in silence for a few seconds until she starts fidgeting with the hem of her apron.

"What are you doing in the kitchen anyway?" she says finally.

"Oh," I say with a sheepish smile. "Um, I was kind of hiding…from Dorna Mills."

"She's very pretty," says Katniss flatly. It's an odd thing for her to say, but I can't read the closed expression on her face.

"I guess so," I reply, grimacing. I want to make it clear to her that I am in _no _way interested in Dorna. "If you're into big heads."

This is the point where a normal girl might giggle, maybe lay a hand on my arm possessively. Katniss just continues to stare at me stonily. _She's not worried about competition you idiot, _I tell myself. _She's probably not even interested in competing. _

I clear my throat. Behind the kitchen door I hear the orchestra start up a new song and through the tiny window that looks out into the parlor I can see the garishly dressed couples lining up to dance.

"Do you dance?" I ask her on a whim, aware that I used up my one allotted question long ago.

"Is that dancing?" she says skeptically. And I get her point as I follow her disgusted stare out the window to where the Capitol guests are performing a stiff, boxy dance that makes them look like ostentatious chess pieces moving jerkily across a game board.

I snort at Katniss' remark. "You're _funny_, Katniss," I say with some surprise. "That's the second joke you've made tonight."

Katniss looks like she can hardly believe it either, but I also think she looks a bit self-satisfied. I realize suddenly that I'm standing so close to her that it would be so easy to just reach down and—

Just then the door to the kitchen slams open and a very inebriated Haymitch Abernathy stumbles in, an empty glass in each hand. Katniss and I jump away from each other like repelling magnets.

Haymitch Abernathy is last remaining heir of the oldest and most wealthy family in District 12. His constant boozing and generally vulgar disposition have caused him to fall from favor among the elites, but when it comes down to it, it's your family name and the size of your pocketbook that really matter in high society. I know that something terrible happened to Haymitch a long time ago before I was even born, but no one will ever tell me the full story. All I can gather from the whispered rumors and the disdainful stares he often receives is that it was something truly scandalous. I don't care about rumors and as crass as Haymitch may be, I've grown to like him. Considering our mutual social circles, my brothers and I have known Haymitch since birth, and Bannock and I have always called him Uncle Haymitch, a name that he pretends to despise but secretly relishes.

"Well, would you look at that," he slurs. "It's my favorite little Mellark."

"What are you doing here, Haymitch?" I say through gritted teeth, angry that he's ruined my moment with Katniss.

"Hiding from Effie Trinket. What are _you_ doing here?" he retorts.

"Hiding from Dorna Mills."

"Atta boy," says Haymitch, patting my cheeks gruffly. "Dames like that only bring trouble. Speaking of dames," continues Haymitch looking over at Katniss with a sly grin on his face. "Who do we have here, Boy?"

Katniss blanches. "I'm the help, sir. Just the help, that's all." And with a considerably awkward curtsy for someone so naturally graceful, she bolts for the door looking absolutely mortified.

"Hey there, Sweetheart, no need to run off!" Haymitch calls after her. She doesn't turn around.

"Why did you do that!" I hiss at him, grabbing his coat sleeve roughly.

"Woah, boy, easy there! No need to get angry, I'm not judging you. You're a sixteen year old boy, we've all got needs—"

"It's not like that!" I roar before remembering where I am and lowering my voice. "I'm not taking…_advantage _of her. We were just talking. I—she—"

"All right, all right, don't get your saintly little undies in a bunch," says Haymitch, waving off my blustering remarks. "I'm just messing with you kid. Look, I've known you since before you could wipe your own bottom." I roll my eyes at Haymitch's choice of imagery. "And as hard as I've tried to corrupt you, I ain't never seen you do anything that wasn't respectful in your life."

"Just leave it alone then, ok?" I say defensively. "We were just talking. I know her from school."

"I know that girl, too. See her all the time in the Hobb when I go to get my liquor."

"In the _Hob!_" I practically shout. "With all those criminals? It's so dangerous."

Haymitch chuckles. "It's sweet that you care so much about your school acquaintances."

I shoot him a dirty look.

"So serious. Where's that sense of humor of yours? Is it hiding from Dorna Mills too?" Haymitch laughs uproariously at his own joke before continuing. "Look, before you get on your white horse and start riding to her rescue, you should probably know that the girl can handle herself. Tough as nails, that one."

"I know that," I say shamefacedly.

Haymitch gives me an appraising sideways look. "Oh boy, you've really got it bad for her don't you."

I groan and cover my face with my hands. "Bannock could tell, too. Is it that obvious?"

"It's written all over your face. Fancy a poker game?"

"Haymitch!" I moan. "This is serious! What am I supposed to do?"

"Let's put this down in the history books that you, Peeta Mellark, are asking drunken old Uncle Haymitch for advice. But listen kid," Haymitch's voice grows serious and he puts his hands bracingly on my shoulders. "I can't tell you what to do. I can only tell you this—as far as I'm concerned, that heart of yours is just about the only good and pure thing left in this hell hole of a district, so I'd say you should listen to it."

Haymitch claps me on the back and makes an unceremonious lurch towards the icebox. "Got any booze left?"

* * *

I'm so distracted after my run-ins with Katniss and Haymitch that I hardly remember the rest of the party and before I know it, I am home and tucked into my bed, still thinking about what he said. _Listen to your heart?_ It sounds like a line from one of those silly romance novels that Delly is always reading. And yet as I lay there with open, sleepless eyes, there is _something_ that is spurring me into action, whether it is my "heart" or not I cannot say. So while everyone is asleep I slip down into the bakery and spend the rest of the night working. At dawn I take the back roads into the Seam side of town and after asking a confused looking miner for directions, I find myself outside the Everdeen residence.

The house is hardly a house at all—it is more like a shack. But the yard is tidy and there is a tendril of smoke curling out of the stone chimney. I knock on the door reticently and after a moment she inches open the door. Her eyes grow large when she sees me and she tries to push the door shut, but I stop it with my hand.

"No! Katniss, wait." She hesitates and I see dark purple circles under her eyes. I guess I'm not the only one who didn't sleep tonight. "Please," I say softly.

She opens the door a little wider, distrust written all over her face.

"How's Prim?" I ask.

Katniss fidgets with the doorknob. "A little better," she finally says. "You shouldn't be here."

I choose to ignore that last comment and instead hold up a small white box marked "Mellark Family Bakery." "I made these for Prim," I say, pushing the box into her hands and backing off the front stoop before she can protest. "Take care of yourself, alright?"

I turn around and make my way quickly up the gravel path, knowing that she'll try to return the gift. But as I reach the gate, I hear a stifled gasp and I know she must have found the dozen cookies decorated as primroses.

* * *

**Author's Note: I decided to make Haymitch Merchant rather than Seam because it works better for the story, and honestly, would you want to read a fic that _didn't _include our favorite inebriated mentor? Please let me know what you think of the story! Nothing makes my keys type faster than a couple of reviews...**


	4. Chapter 4

Katniss is avoiding me. We were too close that night at Gran's formal, or she was too vulnerable, or I was too bold, or Haymitch was too crass—who knows? All I know is that she refuses to see me. I had just begun to feel that we were making some progress, too. She was talking to me—_really talking—_and smiling and _joking. _But I suppose the divide between us can't be bridged quite so easily.

I should let this play out on her terms—after all, if something goes sour here, if someone were to find out, well, Katniss would suffer worse from it than I would. Is it really fair for me to pursue her at all? Wouldn't she be safer if I hid away those few shards of herself that she's shared with me and treasured them until the day I die, never daring to seek out what might have been? It's these doubts that keep me from cornering her and forcing her to speak to me after a full week of being frozen out. Today, however, fate seems to have decided to be magnanimous.

As I am walking home from school thinking about the dozens of molasses cookies waiting to be baked this afternoon, I catch a glimpse of something golden glinting off to my left. It's Primrose Everdeen. My heart jumps into my throat because I know who must be by her side even before I even see those long, slender legs and that thick, glossy braid. She has Prim by the hand and is dragging her as quickly as possible towards the place where the cement Merchant's road gives way into the dirt path that runs into the Seam, but she isn't quite quick enough, because Prim has spotted me.

I see her pointing at me excitedly and pulling on Katniss' hand. Oh Prim, you darling little girl, what perfect timing you have. Katniss finally relents and allows Prim to guide her over to the place I'm standing and once again I'm struck by how different the sisters really are. Prim is much fairer than an average Seam girl, she has long neatly plaited golden hair and clear blue eyes. But more than that, it is her open, friendly disposition that distinguishes her from her sister.

Prim smiles at me shyly, and it's an easy smile, the smile of a girl who has been spared from the harsh reality of life in the Seam.

I crouch down so that we're at eye level and stick out my hand. "Miss Primrose Everdeen I presume," I say with an exaggerated gentlemanly air that makes the little girl giggle. "How do you do?"

"Very well, Mr. Mellark, sir!" she chirps, shaking my hand daintily. The she leans in conspiratorially. "And my friends call me Prim."

"Then by all means, Prim, please call me Peeta," I say, looking pointedly at Katniss. She breathes out through her nose huffily.

"Well, go on Prim," urges Katniss, chewing on the corner of her mouth and looking everywhere but my eyes. "Tell Mr. Mellark what you wanted to say."

Prim pulls herself up in a dignified manner and clasps her hands behind her back as if she is reciting poetry in class. "Thank you Mr. Mellark sir for the beautiful cookies. I've never tasted anything so wonderful in my whole entire life!" Prim gives me a look so serious that it is comical and then she seems to diverge from her script. "Honest, sir. Cross my heart and hope to die, I ain't never had anything so fine before ever!"

"_Have never," _corrects Katniss. "And I think we've taken up quite enough of Mr. Mellark's time."

"You're very welcome, Prim. I made that design specially for you," I say warmly.

Prim continues to peer up at me with a sunny smile. "Katniss liked them too. I shared with everyone," she says proudly. "But what Katniss _really_ likes is those cheesy buns that—"

"That's enough, Prim!" snaps Katniss, looking alarmed. "It's time to go!"

Prim looks confused by her sister's sudden harsh tone, but she recovers in time to give me one last smile. I notice that she's recently lost a baby tooth on the upper right side.

"Well, it sure was nice meeting you sir," says Prim earnestly as Katniss puts a firm arm around her shoulders and begins steering her away.

"The pleasure was all mine, Prim. I'll see you again soon!"

Prim beams at me, and Katniss counters it with one of her signature scowls, but I don't care, because I may have just discovered my secret weapon. Cheese buns, eh? And I always thought chocolates were the way to a girl's heart.

* * *

When I get home there are sirens outside the bakery. Mother is screaming. I bound up the front steps and into the kitchen, and Bannock is there, telling me things that I don't understand, things that can't possibly be true. He's saying that dad is dead. Heart attack. It was sudden.

The room is spinning, revolving like a rickety old amusement park ride, and I'm clinging on for dear life, sure that any second I'll be catapulted into oblivion. I just saw dad this morning, rolling out a batch of sugar cookies, perfectly healthy. He was laughing, telling me some stupid story about how he and Haymitch used to sneak into Capitol parties wearing the most ridiculous get-ups imaginable and try to convince everyone it was the latest trend. I was hardly even listening! I was thinking about meeting up with Anselm to shoot hoops after school. And now dad is dead. Dead? It doesn't seem real. Nothing seems real.

Two days later I find myself standing in front of his casket on the back lawn of the bakery wearing one of those suits that he hated so much. Once mother got over the initial shock, she handled the whole tragedy with her usual level of unflinching callousness. I know father wasn't her first choice, but you would think she could at least show some modicum of remorse after 20 years of marriage to a good man. Today she stands by stoically as the presider reads a passage from the Panem Book of Prayer about the eternal life of the immortal soul. Bannock's eyes are red from crying and even Aldo has dropped his disdainful smirk in favor of a frown and downcast eyes. A few seats over I see Haymitch dabbing at his eyes with a filthy handkerchief and sneaking drinks of white liquor out of his hip flask.

There was a good turnout for the funeral; father was a well-respected man in District 12, known for his gentle manner and his humanity. On the left side of the open casket there are a considerable number of mourners from the Seam, something almost unheard of at Merchant funerals. I subconsciously scan the crowd for _her _face, but it is not there. Tears stinging in my eyes, I tear my gaze away from the huddled group of Seam feeling more wounded and angry with Katniss than I could have ever imagined possible. She knew my dad, he always gave her a good trade and a friendly word, so even if she didn't care about me (which she obviously _doesn't_, says a horrible voice within me), didn't she at least owe it to _him _to pay her respects?

After the casket has been lowered into the ground and we have all thrown a handful of dirt onto the grave, the guests begin to file out, many of them stopping to say what a great man my father was or to squeeze my arm consolingly—as if any of that could help. I find myself rooted to the spot even after Bannock has clapped me bracingly on the shoulder and set off towards home, his big shoulders heaving with silent tears. Memories of me and dad flash before my eyes like scenes on an old-fashioned film roll: I see us eating ice-cream on a hot summer's day, cracking jokes as we roll out sheet after sheet of Christmas cookies, sneaking away on mom's bad days to search for buried treasure by the creek. I can almost hear his booming laugh as he chases my seven-year-old self up and down the bank pretending to be the evil pirate captain Long John Mellark.

It's no longer clear to me how long I've been standing there staring at the place where my father will now rest forever. The wind has picked up and a sheet of menacing looking gray clouds has rolled in, but I hardly even notice the cold. I am numb. I am alone.

That's when I feel a hand slip gently into mine, small and impossibly warm. It is _her _hand. She squeezes softly and I cling to her callused fingers as if they are the only thing that is tethering me to this earth. I want to hear her voice. I want her to take away the crushing sadness that has settled on my chest. I want to lose myself in her.

"What was your father like?" I ask in a hoarse, trembling voice.

A gust of wind picks up a dusting of fresh earth off my father's grave and sends it dancing across the silent graveyard. A barn owl hoots at the margin of the forest.

Katniss does not utter a word.

"Katniss, please," I croak, feeling desperate. I want _her _beside me, not her shell, but _her. _

Maybe my grief has made me bold or maybe I am just so damn tired of speaking to a brick wall, but for whatever reason, I suddenly seize Katniss by her shoulders and spin her around so that she has no choice but to look at me. Her face is wooden, her eyes impassive. I let out an involuntary cry of frustration and give her a little shake. "God Katniss! Can't you be present for me just this once? Can't you just show me you're a actual human being! Scream! Cry! _Punch _me for God's sake! Just do _something! _Anything to show me I'm not alone here." I can feel the tears gathering in my eyes and I wipe them away angrily. "Look at me!" I shout at her, feeling an unfamiliar cocktail of passion, grief and anger swirling around inside me.

But as much as I thought I wanted to see a show of emotion from Katniss, I am not prepared for the display of raw anguish that I see when she finally looks up at me. Her eyes are dry, but in them is a look of such bottomless, agonizing sorrow that my heart clenches as if it is caught in a vice. She is despair personified. I release her from my grasp immediately, a wave of nauseating shame running over me, and before I can stutter out an apology, she is backing slowly away from me.

"I'm sorry, Peeta," she whispers, calling me by my name for the first time. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

_Knock, knock, knock._

I am startled awake by the sound of something striking the window and I realize that it is raining hard outside. A low rumble of thunder sounds in the distance. It must have been a tree branch glancing across the windowpane, I tell myself, sinking back into the pillows, wanting nothing more than to slip back into the nothingness of dreamless sleep. But just as I settle back down, there it is again, urgent this time.

_Knock, knock, knock!_

My head feels heavy with unshed tears, but I sit up unsteadily, swing my legs over the edge of my bed, and shuffle over to the window to peer out into the raging storm. What on earth could be making that deliberate knocking sound? Outside everything is swirling darkness until I hear a resounding clap of thunder and a flash of lightening illuminates the outline of the scraggly apple tree that grows alongside my second story window. To my horror, I realize that there is someone in that tree… and it doesn't take long to surmise who.

I throw open the window and a blast of icy cold rain sweeps into the room. There she is, her knees clamped around a spindly upper branch of the tree, gripping on to the slippery bark with white, tired fingers as the whole tree sways precariously in the wind.

"Katniss!" I shout over the howling wind. "Oh my God! What are you doing!" I gesture wildly for her to enter. "Get in here!"

"I—I thought you wouldn't want to s—see me," she says through chattering teeth.

"I _always _want to see you," I tell her earnestly, reaching out my hand and helping her to jump down onto the window seat. The roaring of the storm outside subsides a little as I slam the window shut and bolt it.

Katniss is standing shivering in the middle of the room, her arms clutching her sides, a small puddle gathering around her feet. She is wearing a pair of soaking wet, threadbare pajamas tucked into hunting boots and her face looks deathly pale. I rush to grab a blanket and wrap it securely around her shoulders before pushing the curtain of wet hair back from her eyes and feeling her forehead. It is burning.

"What were you thinking running out into a storm dressed like that?" I chastise her, fussing at the state of her sodden nightclothes. "You're going to get sick!"

She doesn't respond, just looks up at me with wide, desperate eyes that make me stop fretting about her outerwear for a second and just stare, utterly unprepared for what she is about to say. "My father taught me to swim!" she finally gulps.

"Wh-what? Katniss, I –I don't understand—"

Her shoulders are shaking uncontrollably, beads of icy water still coursing down her cheeks, but she grits her teeth and plows ahead. "He always smelled of wood smoke, and mint and fresh air and sometimes when I wear his jacket I think I can still smell it."

I rub my hands up and down her arms, trying to warm her up and she doesn't protest. "He loved fresh maple syrup, but he hated sugar in his tea."

"Me too," I whisper, and this seems to embolden her.

"Once when I was ten I got scared by the howl of a wild dog and I climbed up so high in a tree that I couldn't get down, and Dad stayed there all day long coaxing me back to the ground… And he used to say that he'd only ever had three wishes in his whole life and they'd all come true: Mother, Prim, and me… And sometimes," Her voice gets so soft that it's like the fluttering of a butterfly's wings, and she tugs the blanket tighter around her shoulders with thin, shaking fingers. "Sometimes I miss him so much that it feels like there's a big black hole opening up inside me and I'm trying so hard not to fall in like mother. And I try to cry, but I—I _can't."_ Her voice hitches, but still, her eyes are like steely gray deserts.

"Katniss…" I breathe, my heart breaking for her.

But she holds up her hand urgently to stop me from speaking.

"And I'm so sorry that I ran away today… because I wanted to be there for you!" she growls, actually stomping her foot in frustration. "I wanted to be there for you because there was no one there for me. But I don't know how!" she wails, gripping her hair and avoiding my eyes. "I don't know how, and I'm…I'm scared, ok? But you're _good_, Peeta. You can get through this, I know it! And—and if you still want me—I could—I could try to help you…" She bites her lip and when she finally meets my eyes she looks so small and vulnerable that all I can think of is five-year-old Katniss on the playground with her two dark braids and father bending down next to me and whispering, "See that little girl?". I don't hesitate any longer—I close the small distance between us and gather her into my arms.

At first she stiffens at the sudden intimacy of our embrace, but then I feel a pair of slender, quivering arms snaking around my waist and holding on tight. The sob that has been welling up at the back of my throat finally rips free from my body and I find myself wracked with a barrage of tears that never seem to run dry. I cry for father and his kind smile, and easy laugh, and warm comforting arms, and I cry for Katniss' father and his voice like a Mockingjay, and I cry for me and for Katniss and for my brothers and for my mother. I cry for the unbearable pain of losing someone you love and for the injustice of it all.

And finally, I cry myself out. My breathing slowly returns to normal and the room comes back into focus and I can suddenly hardly believe that she is in my arms. Her grip is unwavering, but I can feel her shaking like a leaf. Reluctantly, I pull away.

"I'm not letting you go back out in that storm tonight, Katniss," I say firmly, and a sharp crack of thunder punctuates my remark.

"But I—" she begins.

I cut her off. "Look, it's just not going to happen, ok? And you need to get out of those wet clothes before you get pneumonia," I say as evenly as possible, though I can tell by the burning in my cheeks that I am blushing profusely. "Here." I dig around in my dresser drawer and hand Katniss a pair of drawstring gym shorts and a t-shirt, trying not to smile at the look of horror on her face. _She is so pure. _"You can change over there. I won't look, I swear."

A moment later I turn around and Katniss is standing there awkwardly, shifting nervously from foot to foot and looking like she's been swallowed by my gym clothes. Despite the terrible circumstances, I can't stop my stomach from doing an Olympic level flip-flop at the sight of Katniss standing in _my_ bedroom wearing _my_ clothing.

"Perfect fit," I joke, giving her the best smile I can muster in my current state. Katniss is tugging on her braid self-consciously and doesn't laugh. "Um, you take the bed," I say nervously.

She continues to terrorize the end of her braid and then finally says, "No, you wouldn't be comfortable. I'll sleep here." She gestures to the green armchair next to the bed. "Come on, lie down."

My head is feeling so clouded by sleep and crying that I don't have the strength left to argue with her, so when she puts her warm hand on the small of my back and guides me towards the bed, I sink into it without further protest. With a gentle, practiced movement Katniss draws the covers up to my neck and tucks them in around me. It's a gesture so tender I can tell it must usually be reserved for Prim.

Through a sleepy haze I hear a grating noise and notice that Katniss has pulled the armchair closer to the side of the bed and settled down into the supple cushion. I can tell that she is not asleep though, it's like she watching over me, fending off the demons of grief that threaten to overwhelm me. My eyelids begin to feel heavy.

"Sing for me," I murmur, too exhausted to censor myself any longer.

Katniss stiffens. "I can't sing," she says quickly and then seeing the skeptical look in my eyes, she rephrases. "I mean I _don't _sing…not since father…"

"I can't think of any better way to honor your father's memory than with your voice," I say, allowing myself to admire the way the moonlight is glancing off her face, making her look younger, less weary.

There is a long silence and I have almost drifted off to sleep when I hear her low, haunting voice drift through the darkness like gossamer on the wind.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise._

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

Katniss finishes the song and she must think that I'm asleep because she reaches out with one of her little hands and gently traces over my brow, my cheekbone, my jawline before curling up in the chair like a kitten and closing her eyes.

* * *

When I awake the morning after my father's funeral Katniss is already gone, and the pile of neatly folded clothes on the green armchair are the only evidence that the night before was not some sort of grief-induced hallucination. A week later when I return to school I expect her to avoid me like the plague-surely she is mortified by her show of vulnerability in the dark of my bedroom. That is why I am so surprised when she appears out of nowhere on my way to biology, gracing her fingers across my arm is a swift, feather-light motion.

"I'm ready for my next question," she says.

* * *

**Author's Note: Poor Peeta! This was a hard chapter to write. Thanks to those of you who have left me such lovely and insightful reviews-please keep them coming!**


	5. Chapter 5

"Who do you think would win in a cage match: Effie Trinket or Caesar Flickerman?" I ask.

Katniss wrinkles up her nose. "You mean that chirpy spokeswoman for Capitol Coal and the host of that stupid dating show? What's it called…"

" 'Panem's Sweethearts.' Yep, that's the one!"

"Oh, Effie definitely. If she didn't knock him out right away with her perfume she could always puncture his windpipe with her hot pink stilettos."

I laugh, and Katniss' lips turn up in that quirky little smile of hers, but a few moments later she cocks her head and gives me one of those penetrating stares that make me feel like she's x-raying my soul. "You keep making jokes, but you're still sad," she says without preamble.

Her insight is eerily accurate—humor is my defense mechanism. However, sprawled out with Katniss in the long, ticklish grass of the meadow is also the best I've felt in a long time. Katniss, who I've realized never feels comfortable unless she's in constant motion, has busied her fingers weaving a bunch of wildflowers into a tiara, a gift for Prim no doubt. I steal a glance at the way her impossibly long eyelashes just barely brush the apples of her cheeks as she looks down at her weaving, and my heart starts pounding in overtime. Honestly, my heart really deserves a pay raise for all the extra work it's been doing the past few weeks.

"Peeta?" she says, concern evident in her voice.

"Yeah?"

"You just look like you have something on your mind."

I look at her thoughtfully before I respond. "Oh, I don't know. I was just thinking that my old man would've really liked you. I wish you could've have had time to get to know him."

"Me too," she says, lifting her eyes to mine for a fraction of a second before going back to fiddling with the stem of a Black-Eyed Susan. We fall into a comfortable silence and I'm just about to comment that the fluffy cumulous cloud billowing overhead looks a lot like Haymitch digging in the icebox for booze, when Katniss suddenly pipes up again.

"Remember when you asked if I dance?" she says unexpectedly.

Oh Katniss, you and your non-sequiturs.

"Yes," I draw out, waiting to see where she'll go with this.

"Well, it's just this Seam thing that we do every year after the harvest. It's stupid really…"

"Doesn't sound stupid."

"It's a dance," she says, blushing furiously. "Not as fancy as your Gran's or anything…but it's fun…I mean, it might make you feel better…and Prim would love it if you…but you probably don't want to…"

I'm almost inclined to let Katniss bluster on because she is so incredibly adorable when she's flustered, but I decide to save her. "Katniss Everdeen," I say coyly, batting my eyes at her in jest. "Are you inviting me to a dance?"

If possible, she flushes still darker.

"Well, don't expect a corsage or anything," she shoots back at me. Katniss gets up and brushes the grass from her frayed trousers, still scowling at me determinedly despite the fact that I am literally rolling on the ground in mirth. "Tomorrow at eight o'clock, ok?" she snipes and stomps off across the meadow towards the Seam.

* * *

I spend an inordinate amount of time getting ready for the dance and by 7:30 I'm stressed and sweaty, a pile of discarded clothing littering my bedroom floor. Everything I own suddenly seems entirely wrong. If I show up looking too dressed up, I'll feel like a pompous, Merchant schmuck, if I'm too casual, I'll look like I don't respect her and her friends. I almost consider calling Delly to ask for her advice, and she would probably happily agree, but considering the baggage between us, and my borderline illegal friendship (if you can even call it that) with Katniss, I decide that it's not the best idea. I eventually settle on a pair of khaki trousers and a dark blue button down shirt and then barricade myself in the bathroom to fight a losing battle with my hair. At quarter to eight I know that I have to leave right away or risk being late, and considering how vulnerable Katniss is making herself by letting me into her world, being late is _definitely _not an option. The stakes are high. I cannot blow this.

There is a knock on the bathroom door, and after checking my hair one more time, I try to stroll out casually, as if I haven't just spent the last fifteen minutes primping like a girl.

"Jeez, it's about time Peet—" begins Bannock, but he stops short when he gets a good look at me, and an evil grin slowly spreads across his face. "You've got a date!" he exclaims gleefully. "Aw, my little bother's got a date." He catches me in a headlock and effectively ruins any progress I had made on my wayward hair.

"Gah, Bannock, get off me!" I yowl, grabbing his arms and trying to bash him off on the wall. "C'mon, I'm going to be late!"

He musses my hair one last time before releasing me, panting slightly. "Well, spill. Who is it then? And please don't say Dorna Mills…"

I roll my eyes at him, "_God _no. It's no one. I'm just hanging out with some…friends…from school. You wouldn't know them."

"It's Braids, isn't it?" he whispers, nudging me knowingly in the ribs, and by the way I leap to clamp my hands over his mouth, I realize that I've just involuntarily confirmed the veracity of Bannock's guess.

"Bannock, I swear to God, if you tell anyone…" I threaten.

Bannock just laughs. "Relax Peeta, I'm not going to say anything." His eyes soften a bit. "Besides, you've been working way too hard at the bakery since dad…" He can't finish the sentence and swallows hard. "Anyway, he'd want you to have some fun, you know? So just remember what I said, and be careful."

"Thanks, Bannock," I say and I pull him in so that we can awkwardly slap each other's backs. I really am lucky to have a brother like him, and if anyone's been working hard since dad passed, it's Bannock. I make a mental note that I owe him big time for this.

A few moments later, I am flying out the back door, carefully avoiding the living room where mom is gossiping on the phone to Tadd Tepsa's mother, and beating the path towards the Seam. I breathe in a lungful of crisp autumn air and sigh. The night is unseasonably warm and there is yellow, harvest moon slowly rising over the mountains. It's times like this that almost make you forget how dismal the District is by day. I stop by the field near school and pick a bouquet of late blooming wild flowers (like my relationship with Katniss?), and remembering her puzzling fondness for dandelions, I am sure to include a few in the arrangement. I laugh a little to myself as I think about how Dorna would react if I presented her with the same bouquet: "Weeds?" she would shrill. "You brought me weeds?"

I round the corner to our usual meeting place at the border between Merchant and Seam territory and gasp. Katniss is standing by the hedge wearing a simple, light blue dress that falls to just above her knees and her hair is braided up into a complicated looking twist that accentuates her long, graceful neck. I can see a fading half moon scar just under her left ear, and the sudden urge to press my lips to it sets me trembling.

"Hi," she says softly and her usual scowl is replaced with a tiny, self-conscious smile.

"You're beautiful," I blurt out before I can stop myself.

_Well, now I've gone and done it. _Way to go Peeta, you moron! Open mouth, insert foot.

Katniss casts her silver eyes downward and folds her arms across her chest protectively.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly. _Oh, great idea, Peeta. Apologize. Like that'll help. _The best thing to do is probably to ignore my gaffe and plow ahead as if nothing has happened. "Um, I brought these for you," I say, shoving the bouquet into her hands. At least now she has something with to fidget with as she recovers herself.

"Thank you," she says stiffly, still not able to meet my eyes. She has noticed the dandelions though, and for God knows what reason this seems to mollify her a bit.

I sigh heavily. "Katniss, please don't run away." I know it must sound like I'm begging, and let's face it, I _am. _

She's silent for a few seconds and then she says cryptically, "If I did, you would never catch me." Katniss is not one to be coy. She's telling me the truth, and she isn't just talking about tonight either. I know that if she decides to run away from this, from _me,_ it will be forever, and nothing I say or do will be able to stop her.

Tension crackles between us like live wires until Katniss finally speaks again. "Ready to go?" she asks, and her tone is almost…bright? She beckons for me to follow her. "Come on, the Harvest Festival has already started!"

Her sudden change in demeanor completely disorients me and I nearly trip over my own feet in my rush to obey. I'm beginning to think I will _never _understand this girl.

As we approach the brightly lit barn and the sounds of giddy laughter and a thrumming banjo glide towards us on the evening breeze, I'm suddenly feeling overcome with anxiety and doubts. What if her friends don't like me? Will I meet her mother in there? If Gale sees me will he just come right up and throttle me in public, or will he be kind enough to beat the living daylights out of me in a more private location?

I turn to look at Katniss in the hopes that she will ease my nerves. I wonder if she is worried too. "I guess it feels weird to have me here, huh?" I say, looking at the cheerful golden light spilling from the string of paper lanterns hanging across the entryway. The dilapidated barn is so refreshingly different from Gran's pristine, showy parlor—it's beautiful without even trying, much like Katniss.

"I'm not ashamed of where I come from if that's what you're implying," she says defensively. _Oh brother, here we go again._

"No! No, that's not what I meant at all, Katniss. I actually just thought that maybe…you might be ashamed of _me."_

She scowls at me, confused. "Why would I be ashamed of you?" she demands.

"You know, because of how my people treat your people. _I'm _ashamed of it."

"You're not like them," she says as if this settles the matter.

"But—"

"Look, do you want to come in or not?" she snaps, putting her hands on her hips impishly.

"Of _course _I do," I say with feeling.

It's worthless to argue with her, so instead I march up the peeling red door and pull it open.

"After you," I say, smiling.

* * *

On the stage in front of us there is a four-piece band comprised of a guitar, a banjo, a fiddle and a string bass, which is playing old mountain airs and fast, jaunty dance tunes. As we enter there are about thirty couples crammed onto the dance floor flying across the room in the most complicated jig I've ever seen. Everyone is laughing, slapping their knees in time to the music, carefree. It's a side of the Seam I've certainly never seen before and it brings a wide grin to my face that absolutely refuses to disappear. I glance sideways at Katniss and I think I see some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

Then from out of nowhere Prim comes bounding up to us dragging an embarrassed looking Rory Hawthorne by the hand.

"Mr. Mellark!" she squeals. "You came!"

"Of course I did. Wouldn't have missed it for all the sugar cookies in Panem!" I say, tugging on one of her pigtails.

Prim turns to Katniss. "Greasy Sae said she'll give Rory and me a caramel apple if we help her a little at the food cart. Can we? Please? Can we?"

"Go on then, little duck," says Katniss, smiling that big easy smile that only Prim can evoke and tucking in the tail of her blouse.

"Hooray!" cheers Prim. "See you later, Mr. Mellark."

"Save me a dance!" I call as she drags the awkward Hawthorn kid into the crowd.

I'm just about to get the nerve up to ask Katniss for a dance when a barrel-chested man wearing a red flannel shirt and a big hat catches sight of her and comes over. He looks like he might be an old friend of her father's or something.

"Well, hello there little lady," he says, tipping his hat.

Katniss' face lights up. "Mr. Julian!" she cries.

"Think blondie here will mind if I take you for a little spin," he says good-naturedly, nodding in my direction.

Katniss looks at me questioningly, and after I wave her on with a smile, Mr. Julian whisks her out into the organized chaos of the dance floor. I've never seen her looking this happy, and honestly, I'm a bit relieved that I'll be able to sit this first number out. Looking at the breakneck pace and the exuberant manner in which the Seam dancers are executing their steps, I can almost see a leg cast in the apothecary with my name on it. I glance around at the flushed, merry faces in the room and I recognize quite a few of them from around town. An older woman with thinning black hair and her tall, gaunt-faced husband wave at me cheerfully, and I realize that they were at my father's funeral. The truly amazing thing is that no one is looking at me suspiciously or questioning my presence, in fact, they hardly even seem to have noticed me at all. I try to imagine walking into a Merchant party with Katniss on my arm—the whole room would be in hysterics. There would be chaos. There would be Peacekeepers. I swallow hard. I'm beginning to love the Seam more and more each minute.

It's only then that I notice who has cut in on Katniss' dance. It's Gale. He sweeps her around the dance floor as if they are birds on wing, swooping and diving, flitting through the steps in perfect unison. _She is laughing._ I shouldn't be jealous, I have no claim on Katniss, and he is her best friend after all. I try to remind myself that if it weren't for Gale, Katniss might have had a lot harder time providing for her family, that she might have gotten thinner and thinner until she wasted away completely. When it comes down to it, I should really be thanking Gale. So then why am I clenching my fists so indignantly at my sides? Why do I feel my blood pressure rising against my will?

The jig ends with twang of the banjo, and as they come ambling over to where I'm standing, Gale slings an arm over Katniss' shoulders. I try not to smile too smugly as she shrugs it off. Her face is flushed with exertion a few glossy strands of hair have sprung free from her braid so that they are framing her face. I bite my tongue to avoid making another disastrous comment about how beautiful she is.

Gale finally catches sight of me and gives me a scowl to rival one of Katniss'. "What's _he_ doing here?" he asks harshly. I know he must recognize me as the Merchant boy from the bakery.

Katniss hands us both a glass of cold apple cider and gives Gale a warning look.

"This is Peeta Mellark. I invited him." She takes a sip from her own glass and starts tapping her foot in rhythm to the music, seemingly oblivious to the ridiculous display of male posturing that is going on right in front of her face.

Gale draws himself up so that I cannot miss the fact that he's several inches taller than me. "Yeah, I know Mellark," he says, addressing Katniss. Then he rounds on me. "What, there aren't enough Capitol parties for you? Where's your sequined headdress and your rhinestone tie?"

I would love to slug the guy right in his smug, too-handsome face, but I know Katniss would probably never speak to me again, so I decide to play it off lightly. "Oh, rhinestones are _so_ last season," I say in the affected voice of a Capitol man. "I left the tie with the butler on the way out of my castle."

Katniss lets out a little snort of laughter, and Gale glares at me. He turns to Katniss, lowering his voice and leaning down to speak into her ear. "Katniss, what are you doing?" he hisses.

"I'm enjoying the Harvest Festival, Gale," she snaps. "What are you doing?"

"You know what I m—"

"No, I _don't _know what you mean," she says, cutting him off.

They stare daggers at one another for a moment. "Fine," he finally snaps. "But you're being stupid!"

"I don't know why you're so angry, Gale!" she shouts, looking bewildered by his behavior. People are beginning to stare.

"_Don't you_?" he shouts back incredulously, and I can see the hurt behind his eyes before he stalks off towards the back of the room.

Katniss turns to me awkwardly. "Sorry about that. He just doesn't like meeting new people, that's all."

_You mean he doesn't like seeing _you_ with new people, especially people like me._ Is she really this oblivious?

I shake my head at her. "You just don't understand the effect you can have."

Katniss makes an indistinguishable noise in the back of her throat and takes another sip of apple cider. "Hey, isn't that your friend Haymitch?" she says curiously.

I follow her gaze and see that, sure enough, Haymitch Abernathy is crowded around a table with a bunch of miners, hands clamped around a big tankard of beer, laughing uproariously. What on earth is he doing here? I know he said that he's seen Katniss around the Hobb, but I never imagined his dealings with the Seam extended much further than the desire to replenish his stash of white liquor.

"What the—?"

"Oi, Peeta! Over here!" shouts Haymitch. I try to pretend that I haven't seen him while he gestures frantically in my direction.

"Quick Katniss, pretend that we're engrossed in a deep and meaningful conversation and maybe he'll leave us alone!"

Too late. Haymitch stumbles over and throws an arm around me to steady himself. "They sure know how to throw a good shindig in these parts, huh kid?"

I cough at the smell of Haymitch's breath. "Erm, sure do," I agree, scanning around me for some way out of this situation.

"I see you've found your huntress again. How you doing, Sweetheart?" he says to Katniss. She glares at him in response. Perhaps someone should tell Haymitch that Katniss isn't really the type for pet names. "Ouch. This is a prickly one, boy. Proceed with caution."

I sigh wearily. "Katniss, meet Haymitch Abernathy, District 12's biggest pain in the rear." Haymitch bows ceremoniously. "Haymitch, this is Katniss Everdeen."

"Your girlf—" Haymitch begins saucily.

"My _friend_!" I practically shout.

Haymitch's diabolical grin widens. "She doesn't talk much, does she?" he says to me in a loud whisper.

"You don't bathe much, do you?" Katniss retorts.

Haymitch hoots with laughter. "Now that's some _spunk," _he slurs. "I like her."

The band begins a new song and Haymitch's ears suddenly perk up. "Uh oh, this is my gig!" he cries, whipping a harmonica out of his pocket. "I'll see you two later!" And with that, he shoves Katniss and I together with glee and sprints off for the stage, where he subsequently begins to wail on the harmonica with such skill that my mouth falls open.

"Well…shall we?" says a nervous looking Katniss.

My cheeks color a little. "I'm a pretty terrible dancer," I say sheepishly.

"Well, I'm a pretty terrible friend. Guess we all have our strengths." She gives me a small, sideways grin and I feel as if my heart will actually jump out of my chest. Did Katniss just acknowledge that we are friends?

"Fair enough. Ok, let's do it. Just don't say I didn't warn you…"

We make it through the first song, and the second, and the third, and by the fourth, I imagine that the only thing that could be more wounded than her feet, is my pride.

"I'm so sorry," I repeat as I stomp on her foot for the fifteenth time tonight. "Do you want me to call an ambulance for the way home?"

Katniss smirks at me. "I've challenged a black bear for a honeycomb, I think I can handle a few bruises on my feet."

The band strikes up a new song, and to my relief, it's much slower. I think I recognize it from music class as an old mountain air, a love ballad. Katniss has got that faraway look in her eyes again, and I can tell she's remembering something from long ago.

"Dad used to sing this song for mother," she whispers sadly.

I squeeze her hand. "Do you want to sit down or something?"

"No!" she says, almost too quickly. "I mean, no. I'd like to keep dancing…if you want to."

I don't answer, just pull her in as closely as I dare and sway gently in time to the music. It is a slow, mournful tune where the plaintive voice of the violin takes center stage.

"Is your mother here?" I ask her softly.

I can feel her tense up in my arms. "No, she doesn't come out to dances anymore….doesn't really do much of anything anymore, actually."

"You're not like her you know," I tell her and her eyes suddenly leap up and hold my gaze. "I know that's what you're afraid of, but it won't happen to you. You're so strong."

"I have to be strong for Prim," she says fiercely.

"I know," I murmur.

We lapse into silence and out of the corner of my eye I notice Haymitch standing off to the side of the dance floor whispering to a group of miners including the barrel-chested man who danced with Katniss earlier. For some reason they keep glancing over at us surreptitiously. I subconsciously pull Katniss a little closer and when the dance takes us over to that side of the room, I listen hard for a snatch of their conversation.

"—Kid's got a silver tongue—could convince geese to fly north for winter—"

_Why the hell is Haymitch talking about me?_

"—And the girl with that bow and the sweet little sister—"

_And now Katniss, too? _I look down at her quickly to see if this makes her alarmed, but it's obvious she hasn't heard anything because her face looks serene, content. _Am I making her feel that way? _My brain quickly pushes Haymitch's conversation out of the way so that it can attend to more urgent matters—namely, the fact that Katniss Everdeen is in my arms and she actually seems happy to be there. I'm intoxicated by the smell of her hair, the feel of her hand brushing against the nape of my neck, the way she moves so quietly, so delicately, like a breeze through the meadow. Katniss gives an almost inaudible sigh and lays her head on my shoulder and I think my knees are going to give out. Surely this is bliss.

* * *

"Come on, I want to show you something," she says, taking my hand and weaving through the crowds towards the back of the barn. I follow Katniss into a dusty, secluded corner and when she tugs on a string attached to the wooden planks above our heads, a ladder folds down. We climb up and when we reach the top I realize that we must be in the hayloft. In front of us is a broad open window and the velvet, star-studded sky seems to stretch out forever. "I like to come here to think," says Katniss, turning around to face me. "Do you like it?"

"I would definitely do a lot more thinking if I had a place like this," I assure her. We settle down onto the straw-lined floor, me leaning up against a post and her reclining back into a pile of hay, hands behind her head.

"You haven't asked me your question yet today," she says lazily, stretching out her legs so that her feet hang out of the loft window.

I hesitate, twirling a piece of straw between my fingers pensively. "Well, I do have one question that I've wanted to ask for a long time…but I don't know if you're going to like it."

Katniss draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Hit me."

"What really happened to your father? I mean, the Peacekeepers tried to convince us it was some sort of explosion in the mines, but I never believed them." I hold my breath as I wait for her to respond—have I taken things too far?

"My father was a rebel," she says quietly. "He was for the desegregation of Panem—that's high treason in the Capitol's books. Mother begged him to let it go, to just be satisfied with our lot in life, but dad believed in the cause, you know? I think he wanted things to be better for Prim and me someday."

"He was a good man," I tell her.

"Yeah? And look where it got him!" she says bitterly. "They killed him for it and we were left with a shell of a mother who didn't even notice her kids were starv—" Katniss cuts herself off abruptly, flushing with shame.

I look at Katniss and realize that at just sixteen she's a warrior, not a teenager. What kind of sick world are we living in where twelve year old girls become heads of families, where children are digging through dumpsters for scraps of food, where life has knocked them down so many times that they don't know who to trust anymore. It makes me want to be a rebel, too.

"I wish I could do something like that to…to show the Capitol they don't own me," I burst out angrily. "That I'm more than just a piece in their game."

Katniss looks horrified. "Weren't you listening to anything I just said? That kind of talk gets people killed. I can't afford to think like that, and neither can you."

"Aren't you thinking like that already? I mean, you brought me here," I counter.

"You're right," she says, sitting up suddenly. "This is so selfish.

"No, it's not," I cut in fervently before she starts going overboard. "It's exactly the opposite of selfish. You saw that I was sad and you wanted to cheer me up because we're…_friends, _right? The fact that us being here together is like us thumbing our noses at the Capitol is just a bonus."

She's quiet for a moment and then she cocks her head at me. "How do you always do that?"

"What?"

"Come up with the right thing to say."

"Do I?" I ask, flustered.

She nods her head slowly in response. Somehow this emboldens me and I decide to ask what I've been itching to know for a long time now. "Can I ask you another question?"

Katniss nods again.

"Do you ever talk like this with Gale?"

She considers the question carefully and then says, "Not really, mostly we just hunt and keep our mouths shut. Gale and I are a lot alike."

Strong, stubborn, uncommunicative—I suppose they are a lot alike.

"I don't think he likes me very much," I confess.

"Oh, he'll come around. He just doesn't know if he can trust you, that's all," reasons Katniss.

"Do _you _trust me?" I ask with bated breath.

She sits up slowly and hugs her knees to her chest as if her being physically closed off will somehow protect her emotional vulnerability. "I'm not… good at trusting…"

I'm not going to let her wriggle out of this one so easily, "Come on, it's a simple question. Do you trust me: yes or no."

"Peeta, I—" she begins, but I reach up and take her chin in my hand gently, and her breath catches. Looking into her eyes I can see that there is a storm raging behind those placid silver pools. "Yes," she breathes and it is almost like a question. Her eyes flicker almost imperceptibly to my lips. "I trust you."

There must be mere centimeters between us, but it still feels like miles. Do I dare? Does she want me to? She smells of freshly laundered cotton and trees, and her lips look so soft, so tantalizingly soft…

There is a loud crash below and a chorus of startled screams, followed by confused shouting and a gunshot. Katniss has scrambled to her feet before I have even registered what is happening.

"It's Peacekeepers," she gasps, wringing her hands. "I have to find Prim!"

"I'll come with you," I say, wrenching open the trapdoor that leads down from the hayloft. The screaming is growing louder and I can hear the pounding of hundreds of pairs of feet running helter-skelter across the earthen floor of the barn.

"No!" she shouts, looking terrified. "They can't find you here, Peeta! It would only make things worse."

She reaches a trembling hand up to my face and just barely brushes my cheek. "I'll see you later, ok? I—I promise."

I know she's right, I can't follow her, but I also can't just stand here in the hayloft feeling impotent, cowardly. As soon as she has disappeared downstairs I rush over to the window and grab the hefty rope that is attached to the rafters. I imagine that when Katniss swings down this she looks like some sort of agile jungle goddess and realize that with my preternatural clumsiness I'll just be lucky if I don't break my neck. I take a deep breath and count to three before dropping over the edge of the loft and propelling down the side of the barn. Amazingly, I hit the ground without a scratch.

I scan the barn wall until I find a chink in the wood and press my eye up against it to see what's going on inside. There are at least twenty Peacekeepers decked out in full riot gear surrounding the frightened crowd, and Cray, the head Peacekeeper, is standing up on the stage where the band was just playing, a microphone in his hand.

"—There will be no more gatherings of Seam greater than five people. This law will take place immediately and violation is punishable by thirty lashes in the public square. According to the Panem Penal Code 27.3, any Seam citizens suspected of rebel activities, including but not limited to, the possession of illegal weapons, the propagation of anti-Capitol sentiments or literature, poaching on Capitol lands, and any other actions of a dubious insurgent nature, will be subject to harsh punitive measures, which may include death by public execution."

A hush falls over the crowd as Cray folds up the degree and places it in his breast pocket. The only sound that punctures the silence is the stifled cry of a frightened child. I catch sight of Katniss near the front of the stage, standing strong, with a scared looking Prim hugging her around the middle. She holds her head held aloft and stares ahead fearlessly as if she is staring down a pack of wild dogs. For some reason the way the light of the old-fashioned oil lanterns in the barn is flickering across her face and the hot blaze of defiance in her eyes makes Katniss look almost aflame, and I can tell immediately that she will not go down without a fight.

She is Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thanks for the great response on the last chapter! Reviews really help to focus and inspire me. This chapter is a bit lighter than the last...but the plot is thickening!**


	6. Chapter 6

The Capitol crackdown and the winter both come on fast and hard. At times it's difficult to distinguish between the hoards of white-uniformed Peacekeepers milling about District 12 and the relentless blizzards that have buried the town under several feet of snow. Due to inclement weather most of the supply lines are out, and food is scarce even among the well-to-do. The wealthier Merchant families who have never had to go without a day in their lives have started panicking and buying out the local grocery stores, stockpiling endless cans of corned beef and pickled vegetables. Gran calls daily to complain about her various deprivations, and it takes every fiber of patience in my body to refrain from telling her where she ought to stuff her precious caviar.

Since that night at the Harvest Festival security has tripled in District 12. There are Peacekeepers crawling all over Victory square, standing guard at the Seam-Merchant border in town, even patrolling the halls of the primary school. The electric fence around the district has been humming steadily and there are sentries placed at strategic locations along it's length, rendering it virtually impossible to slip into the forest unnoticed, even for someone so stealthy as Katniss.

_Katniss. _I don't dare approach her, knowing how dangerous it could be for her to be seen with me. I know she's not eating, not sleeping, not taking care of herself. A lot of the Seam kids have stopped coming to school, but I still see Katniss, head held high, leading a neatly dressed Prim to classes every morning. I wonder how she's putting food on the table, _if _she's putting food on the table.

After three weeks of watching her waste away before my eyes she is beginning to get that haunted look about her, the same look she had all those years ago when I found her slipping in and out of consciousness under our apple tree, and I know that I have to risk it. I have to talk to her.

The bell signaling the end of our history lesson rings and I wait until I have her in my sights before I casually sidle up to the wall and pull the fire alarm. Using the subsequent noise and chaos as cover, I lurch forward and grab Katniss' arm, pulling her roughly into the supply closet and slamming the door behind us. She immediately raises her fists in defense and is winding up to clock me before she realizes who it is.

"What the hell, Peeta? What were you thinking?" she hisses, dropping her fists abruptly.

Up close Katniss looks to be in even worse shape than I had imagined. She is thin and drawn, the deep purple circles under her eyes indicating that she hasn't slept well in days. Her hair has lost its luster and she has returned to her old wardrobe of baggy, formless clothing to hide the slow deterioration of her body.

I catch one of her hands in mine and I can feel the protruding bones in her wrist. "I had to see you," I whisper. "God, Katniss, you've gotten so thin—"

She snatches her arm back viciously, and I can tell we're back to square one. There will be no more almost-kisses in the barn loft…not for a long time…perhaps there never will be. "I'm _fine, _ok? I don't need your pity."

"I don't _pity _you, Katniss, I _care_ about you. There's a difference," I say angrily. "Sometimes you are so—so—"

"Stubborn? Proud? Pigheaded?" she volunteers. "I know! And that's never going to change!"

"Let me help you," I plead.

"I don't need your charity or anyone else's."

I let out a little roar of frustration. "Dammit Katniss, don't _do_ this! I know you don't care about yourself, but at least think of Prim. How are you going to feed her? You can't hunt and you know it- what will happen to your family if you're caught?"

She glares at me, but she has no response.

"Cray's on the prowl you know," I say harshly. "Is that what you want? For you or, God forbid, _Prim_ to end up desperate on_ his _doorstep!" Katniss' mouth drops open in disbelief, and I know that it's a low blow bringing up Cray, but I'm not sorry. I have to do _something _to get through that thick head of hers. I drop down to a whisper and try to keep the hurt out of my voice. "I thought we had finally agreed that we're friends. Do you really think so little of me that you would rather starve to death than accept my help?"

Katniss squeezes her eyes shut as if she is in physical pain and takes a long, deep breath. When she opens them I can tell that she knows it's fruitless to argue any further. I have played the trump card. Prim. Katniss looks down at her feet and mumbles something that I cannot comprehend.

"What's that?"

"I said, _ok_, God dammit!" she bursts out angrily. "Please enlighten me as to how my Merchant in shining armor can save me." Her voice is dripping with sarcasm and it doesn't suit her.

"Look, I talked to my grandmother, she needs a new girl on her housekeeping staff. This isn't a free handout, ok? You'll work for the money—in fact, you'll work twice as much as you deserve for what you're paid—but at least its something. Katniss, in normal circumstances I wouldn't send my worst enemy to work for Gran, but what choice do you have?"

Katniss is quiet for a long time. She is chewing her bottom lip nervously, her expression guarded. "Ok," she finally answers.

"Ok, then," I say dully, still feeling wounded. I turn around and reach for the doorknob, but pause when I feel an unexpected hand on my shoulder.

Her voice is thin and tremulous, all traces of sarcasm gone. She sounds tired. "Peeta, I—I don't think so little of you. I think…a great deal of you—I—"

I cut Katniss off, suddenly not needing to hear an apology. "I know," I say softly. "Just go see Gran, all right?"

* * *

There is something going on in Victory Square, and it doesn't look good. School has just let out for the day, so there is a stream of students flooding down the main road through town, but we are stopped by a blockade and a row of armed Peacekeepers. I crane my neck to see over the seething crowd, but I can't make out much of anything. There is a gang of angry Merchants chanting something and shaking their fists in front of us, and to the left I see a crowd of frightened looking Seam folks eyeing the Peacekeepers warily.

I turn to the boy next to me, a Merchant who I recognize from gym class. "Hey, do you have any idea what's going on?" The boy doesn't say anything, just points ahead to a crude wooden stage has been erected in front of the justice building, and on top of the stage… is a _gallows. _My mouth goes dry. I remember learning in history class about the Dark Days before the Capitol's coup when the Seam were allowed to roam free and equal. According to the textbooks, the Seam were so bloodthirsty and villainous that when left unchecked they terrorized the good, law-abiding Merchant citizens until the Capitol finally seized power and put them in their rightful place. After that the Capitol had ordered the Seam criminals to be executed in droves—hanging being one of the preferred methods of doling out justice. The Capitol's version of history is preposterous, of course, but most Merchants are too comfortable to challenge it and the Seam are to terrified to.

It suddenly hits me that I am about to witness a public execution, and I am terrified. After a few moments of chaos I see a pair of Peacekeepers marching a Seam man up on to the stage. The executioner speaks into a microphone with a reedy voice and explains that the man in question is accused of "crimes of an insurgent nature." Then they push the alleged criminal to the front of the stage and I let out an audible gasp. It's the jolly, barrel-chested man from the Harvest Festival. It's Mr. Julian.

The crowd of Merchants goes wild, jeering at the Seam man, shouting for his execution. The executioner pulls a sack over Mr. Julian's head and with a sudden motion, the man who had danced so merrily with Katniss just weeks before, is dancing from the end of a rope.

I hear an agonized wail rise up from the crowd of Seam, and someone bumps up against my shoulder. I look up and lock eyes with Katniss for a fraction of a second before she pushes a bereaved looking Prim away from the gallows and out of sight.

* * *

A week after the horrifying public execution of Mr. Julian, I come home from school one day to find Bannock, Aldo and mother gathered in the kitchen, speaking in hushed voices. On the table is a hefty-looking safety deposit box stamped with the seal of the Panem National Bank.

"What's that?" I ask, dumping my backpack in the corner and pulling out a chair.

Mother's eyes are shining greedily. "There was a clause in your father's will that got overlooked. We just found out about the safety deposit box this morning."

"I guess dad had a few things he meant for us to have," says Bannock, and I notice that _his _eyes are shining with unshed tears.

"I always knew the old man was holding out on us," says Aldo coarsely.

I glare at him. "I hope he left you a microscope so we can try to locate your missing heart."

"Ha ha," he retorts.

"Well Bannock, your brother's here now, so can we finally open the damn thing?" says mother impatiently.

Mother and Aldo's perverse fascination with the contents of the box disgusts me. As if they didn't squeeze dad dry enough while he was alive, now they have to do it after he is dead, too? And what do they think is in there anyway? Diamonds? Gold bullion? Lost Mayan treasure?

Bannock draws a key out of his pocket and turns it in the lock until we hear a faint _click, _then he lifts the top of the box and we all peer inside curiously. There are only a few items in the box and they are neither riches nor treasure, but rather, a smattering of sentimental trinkets that my dad had collected over the year. Bannock smiles faintly as he draws out his first wrestling trophy from junior high and a faded photo of the two of them standing in the gym, dad looking proud, his arm slung around young Bannock's shoulders. Mother looks significantly less happy as she draws out a stack of letters dad wrote to her while they were courting and an amateurish painting that he had done of her when they were young. Aldo gets dad's favorite cookie cutter and a photo of him and dad fishing. I can't help but smirk when mother and Aldo collectively receive dad's old Bible with a bookmark at Matthew 5:5: "Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth," and a handwritten note: _It's not too late. _

"Hey, this one's for you, Peet," says Bannock, handing me a small white box. There is a note on top written in dad's untidy scrawl that contains just three words: "For _your _Mockingjay." I ease open the lid with shaking hands and there, on a bed of red velvet, lies a small golden pin in the form of a Mockingjay.

* * *

Gran agrees immediately when I suggest that she hire "the Everdeen girl" to her housekeeping staff. Apparently Katniss made a good impression on her at the Fall Formal, which is surprising considering Katniss' favorite facial expression is a scowl. Gran is also overjoyed that I suddenly seem eager to spend as much time at her manor as possible: "He's finally begun to appreciate the beauty of high society," she tells my mother. But what Gran doesn't know is that I'm_ really_ there to appreciate the beauty of her newest housemaid.

Over the next few weeks I notice the color returning to Katniss' face and Prim looks less and less like a wilting flower. They both look as if they've regained some weight, but I'm still concerned by the sharp angles of Katniss' hipbones and the hollows in her cheeks, so I sometimes slip a few extra cheese buns into her satchel while she's working. Gran's hard on Katniss, like she is with all her servants, but Katniss has a thick skin and she's no stranger to hard work.

Basically the only downside to this arrangement is the fact that Gran keeps inviting Dorna over for dinner. If I have to go through one more five-course meal with her fawning on me I feel like I might take a leaf out of Haymitch's book and resort to hard liquor.

On one particularly sunny December day, I hear Gran yelling at Katniss to attend to the chickens and I decide that it will be safe approaching her out in the barn—there's absolutely no chance of Gran or Dorna sneaking up on us in such a smelly place as that. I pull on my heavy coat, scarf and hat and plod down the snowy path to the chicken coops. Gran has a large estate with several acres of forest, a sizeable garden, and a lake stocked with fish.

I duck into the dimly lit chicken coop and look around. "Katniss?" I call. A couple of the birds squawk and ruffle their feathers at me indignantly and I give an involuntary shudder that I hope Katniss doesn't notice. I know that it's absurd, but for some reason chickens, with their beady little eyes and razor sharp talons, give me the creeps.

"Peeta?" she says uncertainly, peeking her head out from behind a line of roosting chickens. "What are you doing here?"

I scuff my boot in the dirt and try to maintain a healthy distance from the disgruntled hen to my left. "I miss talking to you," I say earnestly.

"Oh," she says, picking up an egg and holding it up to the light.

"What are you doing?" I ask curiously. As a Merchant I know next to nothing about raising livestock.

"Checking to see if the egg's fertilized or not. If there's a chick growing inside you can see the black outline in the light." She shoves a second chicken to the side and seizes another egg.

"Can I help?"

She snorts. "You want to help?"

"Yeah, why not?" I say trying to sound nonchalant, like the idea of touching one of these Hell-birds doesn't terrify me in the least.

She smirks. "Ok, if you really want to. See that white one there? Gather her eggs and put them in this pail. Carefully, ok?"

"No problem," I say in a voice that's just a little bit too high. I clear my throat and focus my attention on the white hen Katniss referred to. I'm sure that it is leering at me. Ever so slowly I raise my hands, and just as I've finally convinced myself to take the egg…_Squawk! _ The hen rears up, puffing out her chest and flapping her wings threateningly. I give a startled cry and stumble backwards, knocking over the pail with a resounding clang.

Katniss laughs in spite of herself, hanging onto a wooden beam for support. "I can see why you were so frightened," she says cheekily. "Studies do show that chickens evolved from dinosaurs."

It is one of those rare moments of levity since the Capitol crackdown and it feels so glorious that I don't want to let it end. I lunge at Katniss playfully and she dodges around me, leaping out into the snowy farmyard with a light, tinkling laugh that I can hardly believe belongs to her. She reaches down and launches a snowball at me, which hits me squarely in the chest, and I chase her across the meadow. She scrambles over the mound of snow surrounding the lake and glides forward confidently on the glassy surface.

"Just try and get me out here!" she challenges.

I, of course, crash to the ice three times before Katniss takes pity and hauls me to my feet. I latch onto her arm and hold on for dear life, our frosty breath mingling in the cold December air.

"You know, being with you is quite emasculating. I feel like I'm always the damsel in distress," I joke.

She pats my arm with exaggerated sympathy. "Oh, poor Peeta. Do you want to flex your muscles for me or something? It might make you feel better."

We both laugh and it feels _so_ good that for a moment, just for a moment, I can almost forget about the Capitol decrees, and the Peacekeepers, and the gallows.

"If you could choose one moment and live in it forever, what would it be?" I ask her.

"Hmm, that's a tough one," she says, tipping her head up and slightly to the left like she does when she's thinking. "I guess maybe the day when I brought home Prim's goat, Lady. Prim was so happy that she wouldn't stop hugging that silly beast for hours." Katniss smiles nostalgically and I try to imagine being there in her house in the Seam, a fire roaring in the hearth, little Prim with the tail of her blouse sticking out, lovingly stroking the coarse fur of her goat. It makes me smile, too.

"What about you?" she asks.

I hesitate. "Promise you won't get mad?" Katniss crosses her heart with mock solemnity. "I'd probably choose this one," I say, locking eyes with her.

There is a pregnant pause in which Katniss blushes to the roots of her hair, but she doesn't lash out. Instead, she surprises me when a wicked grin splits her face. "Are you sure about that?" she asks. "Because I think this moment's about to get pretty painful." And with that, she pulls her arm out of my vice-like grasp and I fall flat on my back.

"Oof!" I gasp. "Very—" I grab her ankle and give a little tug. "–funny!" Katniss' legs slip out from under her and she crashes to the ice beside me.

We laugh again, both rubbing our sore rear ends ruefully.

"Ok, now that I've ruined the moment, there's something I want to…to give you," I say nervously.

Katniss' eyes immediately narrow and I know the signs. She is about to go on defense.

"Before you say anything just let me speak, ok?" I draw out the little white box. "This is from my father—"

"Then I _definitely_ can't take it," cuts in Katniss emphatically.

I quickly draw the pin out of the box and place it firmly in her palm. "He meant for me to give it to you," I say vehemently. "He even left a note."

Katniss stares at the golden pin in disbelief. "It's a Mockingjay," she breathes, looking up at me suddenly. "Did you ever hear about the Mockingjays?"

I shake my head.

"Way back during the early years of the Capitol's rule—this was before father's time—the Capitol developed this sort of mutt called a Jabberjay, which could listen in on conversations and then parrot them back. The Capitol sent them out to the districts to spy on the rebels, but they figured it out and started feeding them false information. After a while the Capitol caught on and destroyed the Jabberjays…but not before they had a chance to mate with the common mockingbird…"

"My dad once told me that when your father sang all the Mockingjays stopped to listen," I tell her.

She looks at me curiously. "He said that?"

"Yeah, he did. But I don't think I really believed him until I heard you sing the Valley Song at assembly."

Now she is really looking at me oddly. "You remember that, Peeta? God, how old were we then—"

"Five," I posit. "You were wearing a red dress and you had two braids then instead of one, and I—I had never heard anyone sing so beautifully in my life."

Katniss continues to stare at me, completely thunderstruck and I feel the tension building so I add, "Got a good memory I guess."

"Guess so," says Katniss somewhat suspiciously.

I close her fingers around the Mockingjay pin. "Just keep it, all right? I want you to have it."

* * *

On Friday when I arrive at Gran's house for dinner the sound of clinking glasses and affected laughter is already drifting down the hall from the dining room. Gran's head housekeeper, a severe looking Seam woman with a heavy brow line, comes to take my coat.

"Thank you Mrs. Anders," I say, flashing her a smile. "You're looking well."

"Not as well as you are Master Mellark," she says, patting me fondly on the arm. "Getting more and more handsome every day, dear."

I scuff my feet bashfully, "Aw, shucks."

Mrs. Anders laughs and I'm about to inquire about the health of her husband and granddaughter when I hear Gran shrieking from the other room. "Is that my grandson out there, Anders? Well, what are you waiting for? Show him in!"

"Y-yes madame," blusters Mrs. Anders, her easy smile disappearing as she fumbles to hang up my winter things. "Right away, madame!"

It irks me to see kind old Mrs. Anders treated in such a way, so I give her a sympathetic smile before striding into the dining room. I'm surprised to see that Gran has several guests besides the ever-present Dorna Mills, there is Mr. and Mrs. Smelt, a pair of successful investment bankers, Liliana Vector, a wealthy elderly widow, and… _Vincent Cray_, the head Peacekeeper. I am fighting the urge to spit in his face. I know how he takes advantage of desperate, underage Seam girls, _everyone _knows it, and yet here he is, dining with us as if he's a stand-up member of society instead of the scum of the earth.

"Saved you a seat, Peety," coos Dornea, patting the chair beside her. Can this night get any worse?

It turns out, it can. Because I have just taken my place at the table when I see Katniss make her way into the dining room carrying a tray of plates. I nearly choke on my tonic water.

"Where's Edna?" I cough, looking over at Katniss, alarmed.

"Broke her arm, the silly twit. It's so hard to find good help these days," says Gran sourly.

My heart sinks. Hadn't I set Katniss up with this job so that she could avoid this scumbag? Cray must have a radar for fresh meat because he is already leering at her from across the table, his eyes lingering lecherously on her chest. As she sets his plate of salad in front of him he smirks and reaches around to pinch her ass. My fork clatters to the floor. I feel rage like I have never experienced before lurching up from the darkest recesses of my soul, and I taste bile. How _dare _he! Grinding my teeth and clenching my fists under the table, I try to remind myself that attacking the head Peacekeeper is not going to do Katniss any favors.

After the meal we all retire to the salon for coffee and the company is distracted enough by a tray of delectable almond tarts (Dorna has already stuffed her face with three of them), that I am able to steal out into the corridor. I want to talk to Katniss alone, make sure she's ok. Halfway down the corridor I catch up with her and pull her into an empty sitting room.

"Look, Peeta, I've loads of work to do, I don't really have time for a question right now," she says absently and checks her watch. "I have to make sure Lady Vector's car is here by—"

"How can you be so cavalier about this, Katniss!" I say incredulously. "I saw what happened in there with Cray!"

She sighs. "It was nothing."

"What do you mean it was nothing?" I growl. "He laid his filthy hands on you, the bastard!"

"Peeta, please calm down," says Katniss quietly, looking around nervously as if Gran might pop in at any moment. "Look, it's not like it's the first time someone's groped me, ok? I'm Seam, it happens. Nobody gives a shit."

I run a shaking hand through my already disheveled hair. "_I _do," I say vehemently. "_I _give a shit."

She gives me a sad half smile. "I know."

"You shouldn't have to deal with scumbags like him_."_

"I know."

"You should be treated with _respect."_

"_I know."_

And then, because I don't know what else to say, I hold out my arms to her and she steps into them like the missing piece in a puzzle. I want to hold on to her forever, to never let her go, but suddenly I hear footsteps in the corridor.

Without thinking I yell, "Hide!" and Katniss drops down behind the sofa just as the door bangs open.

"Peeta!" screeches Dorna. "I've been looking _everywhere _for you!"

"Oh, have you? I just, um, needed some fresh air."

"Well, I'm glad I found you here. It's nice to have a little _privacy," _she says, and I don't like the suggestive emphasis that she puts on the last word.

I laugh nervously. "Yeah, it's nice. But we really should get back, you know, they'll be wondering—"

Dorna cuts me off with a sloppy kiss, which I don't quite manage to dodge. I grab her shoulders and push her away from me. "We're missing coffee," I gasp, trying to keep her at bay.

"Who cares about coffee?" says Dorna, her eyes smoldering as she kisses my neck. "I think it's time to take our relationship to the next level, don't you?"

"Next—next level?" I croak. "Dorna, we're not _in_ a relationship."

But Dorna is not listening. "Come on Peeta, let's have some fun," she says lustily and starts backing me up against the wall. All I can think of is Katniss crouched down behind the couch, listening to this. I'm so distracted that I don't even notice what Dorna is up to until I feel her fiddling with my belt buckle, trying to undo my pants.

I jump away like I've been prodded with a cattle brand. "Jesus!" I shout. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

Dorna takes a step back, startled, but then I watch her expression change from surprise, to realization, to rage. "It's that Seam slut isn't it?" she says in a low, dangerous voice.

"I—I don't know what you're talking about," I stammer.

Dorna narrows her eyes. "Don't lie to me, I've seen the way you look at her," she spits. "Bet she puts out, huh? They all do."

The way I am shaking in anger must be giving me away, but I can't control myself. "Dorna," I say with forced calm. "I think you should leave now."

"Oh, don't worry, I'm going, but your little _girlfriend _better watch her back." Dorna turns on her heel and storms out of the room.

When the door slams shut behind her I take a tentative step towards the couch. "Katniss?"

She rises slowly, her eyes wide and unfocused. "I have to get out of here," she whispers, almost as if she is speaking to herself.

"Katniss, don't do anything rash," I beg her. "We'll figure something out, I'll—"

"I have to get out of here!" This time she is yelling. I reach out to her, but she ducks under my arm and sprints for the door.

"Katniss, wait!" I cry.

But she is gone.

* * *

**Author's Note: I just want to say thank you to the great response on the last chapter, I'm glad you're all enjoying it. I think I also owe a great big thank you to bleedtoloveher for recommending this story on tumblr-you're amazing, thanks! **


	7. Chapter 7

**Rating change to M because Gale has a potty mouth.**

* * *

"Haymitch!" I shout, banging into his manor and immediately clamping a hand over my nose against the stench, a foul mixture of stale liquor and unwashed clothes. "Damn it!" I curse as I put my foot through an old take-away box with some moldy looking chicken strips inside. I finally make my way through the sea of detritus to the couch where Haymitch is sprawled out in a drunken coma surrounded by a ring of discarded drink bottles and half-eaten snack foods.

I lean down next to his pungent, unshaven face. "Wake up!" I yell into his ear.

Haymitch springs off the couch like some sort of demonic, foul-smelling jack-in-the-box. "Who'dere," he slurs, brandishing a knife at me.

"Woah!" I cry, leaping back from the couch and into a pile of salt and vinegar potato chips. "Watch it!"

"Peeta Mellark?" He groans and falls back into the pillows sending up a poof of white feathers. "What in the hell did you go and wake me up for?"

"What in the hell did you try and carve me up like a Christmas ham for?" I retort. "Put the knife down and listen to me. Katniss is missing!"

Haymitch slings an arm over his forehead and grimaces. "The ice queen with the braid? Did you check the freezer?"

"Haymitch!" I shout, yanking the filthy blanket off him. He opens one eye blearily.

"Can't you just tie a bell around her neck or something? I'm trying to get my beauty sleep here."

"Yeah, and a fat lot of good it's doing you," I say, eyeing his soiled undershirt and mop of greasy hair.

Haymitch grumbles an indistinguishable string of profanity into his grimy pillow.

"Come on Haymitch, I don't know what to do!" I moan, my anxiety for Katniss overcoming my annoyance at Haymitch's insufferable personality. "I thought I was being so careful and making sure no one saw us together—but Dorna Mills found out, she knows that I'm—that I'm in _love _with her…"

"You're in love with Dorna Mills?" says Haymitch, not missing a beat. "This is more serious than I thought."

"This isn't a joke, Haymitch!" I cry. "Look, I know that love obviously doesn't mean anything to you—"

"Shut your damn mouth, boy!" roars Haymitch so loudly that I take a step back in surprise. Somehow I have managed to strike a nerve. He is breathing heavily, his nostrils flared, knife still clenched in his fist; I don't think I've ever seen Haymitch so worked up in his entire life. Suddenly I feel ashamed of myself for speaking so callously, I mean, what do I really know about Haymitch's past anyway? I suppose a broken heart is as good an excuse for becoming a cantankerous, drunken old man as any.

"I—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that," I apologize, and I watch as the vein that is standing out on his forehead slowly recedes and his breathing returns to normal.

"I'm just so worried about her," I continue, my voice cracking involuntarily. "I wouldn't have asked you, only I don't know who else I can trust."

Haymitch screws up his eyes and massages his forehead. "You trust _no one_ kid, you understand me," he says in an uncharacteristically serious tone. Then he fixes me with long appraising stare. "So you're in love, eh?"

"I am. Have been basically forever, actually." I know I must sound incredibly naïve to him, but I don't care.

Haymitch rubs his hand over the prickly stubble on his chin and gives his head a little shake as if he hopes his hangover will fall out his ear. "All right, boy, guess you better find me some pants so we can go get your girl."

* * *

_When Katniss didn't show up for school the morning after my altercation with Dorna, I immediately knew something was wrong. My classes passed in a blur of anxious rumination on what could possibly be running through Katniss' head and what kind of impulsive, dangerous thing she might do as a result of it. Does she think Dorna will out us immediately? I don't think so. If I know Dorna, she's going to savor this feeling of power, the knowledge that our fate is in her perfectly manicured hands, and she will dangle that fact over our heads like the sword of Damocles until the time is just right and then—bam!—we won't even know what hit us. _

_But I'm pretty sure that the reason Katniss ran is not because she's scared of Dorna. No, the idea of Katniss being afraid of a vain, designer-jeans-wearing, Capitol-loving mean girl like Dorna is laughable. Katniss ran because she's in too deep, because she's revealed too much, because she's let me so far into her life that it's starting to get too hard to push me out the door. That's why Katniss is afraid. _

_I knew that I couldn't leave school early due to the fact that Peacekeepers have been keeping strict tabs on attendance, so I just had to grit my teeth and watch the minutes until the final bell tick by on the clock. At lunch I picked at my food in a way that earned me concerned inquiries from both Anselm and Delly, but as much as I wished I could share my burden with them, I knew that it was too dangerous. It's not that I don't trust the two of them, I do—we've been friends since we were little kids, practically grew up together. I remember Delly and I building forts out of old delivery boxes in the bakery storage room and swearing those solemn oaths to eternal friendship that at the time seemed so utterly binding and unbreakable. Friends forever. But we're not kids anymore, and the biggest worries in our life are no longer whether or not we'll be forced to eat our broccoli at lunchtime. No, if the other shoe drops with Dorna and this…relationship, or whatever it is that I have with Katniss, goes public, I don't want my friends to have to deal with the backlash. The less they know the better._

_Speaking of Dorna…I noticed her whispering to none other than Aldo in the far corner of the cafeteria. The scene struck me right away as odd. I knew, of course, that Aldo had been sweet on Dorna for years, that was no secret, but until now I'd never seen Dorna give him the time of day. Even from my spot on the other side of the cafeteria I could see that Dorna was laying it on thick, she kept touching him lightly on the arm and then laughing uproariously at Aldo's non-existent sense of humor, flipping her hair coquettishly. Aldo had an expression on his face like he couldn't quite believe his good luck and kept nodding sycophantically at everything Dorna said. She had him in her grasp, he would do anything she said, she owned him, and the thought made me uneasy. _

_When the clock finally struck three, I was out of the schoolyard and on my way to Haymitch's before the bell had even stopped chiming._

* * *

And now here I am, plodding towards town with a grumbling Haymitch Abernathy in my wake, unable to stop thinking about all the terrible things the Capitol might do to a girl who has dared to defy class boundaries, the very division that polarizes Panem and keeps the districts under their thumb. Our friendship is the sort of rebel action that the Capitol fears above anything else, a sign that perhaps the divide between Merchant and Seam is not so wide after all. And the Capitol is right to be afraid, because what will happen if the districts finally stop fighting each other and realize who the _real _enemy is?

Since the execution of Mr. Julian, public disciplinary actions have become the main event in Victory Square. Hardly a day goes by where someone from the Seam is not being punished by whipping for whatever minor infraction he or she has supposedly committed against the Capitol. There have been five more executions: four by hanging and one by firing squad. There is little to no investigation into the crimes for which they are accused—by law, two Merchant witnesses are enough to condemn a Seam citizen to death. There are no trials. There is no justice. The only thing there really is, is carnage.

These days it is nearly impossible to avoid witnessing the violence. Capitol technicians arrived a few weeks ago and erected enormous screens throughout town, which broadcast a constant stream of punitive actions against Seam not only from District 12, but from across Panem. Our personal televisions, which were already programmed to turn on when the Capitol made important announcements, now spring to life several times a day with blatant propaganda about the Capitol's duty to protect the law-abiding citizens of Panem from the threat of Seam hooliganism.

As Haymitch and I near the square I realize that there must be another execution scheduled for this afternoon because there is a noisy crowd gathered around the justice building. I start to feel sick to my stomach and am just about to suggest to Haymitch that we turn left and skirt around the square, when I hear it. It's Katniss.

When I think back to this moment later I can't remember exactly what I was thinking when I first heard Katniss' agonized scream, only that somehow I find myself on that stage just seconds later, blood pounding in my ears, eyes locked on the grisly scene before me. She is lying prostrate across a wooden beam, wrists bound, and a brawny Peacekeeper who I don't recognize is poised over her broken figure with a whip, preparing to strike once again. Katniss' back already looks so bloody and mangled that I'm almost afraid I'll pass out before I can reach her, but I bite down on the side of my cheek to help me focus and without thinking, I let out an anguished roar of, "NO!" and throw myself in front of her just as the whip comes slicing down.

For a split second I feel nothing, and then the full impact of the blow hits me with a pain so intense that I see stars. "Stop it!" I gasp, pain rippling out from the wound in white-hot waves. "You'll kill her!"

The screens that are broadcasting the punishment go black with a slight pop and a flash as if someone has pulled the fuse on them in a hurry.

"What do you think you're doing, boy!" shouts the Peacekeeper, pulling me up roughly by my collar. The stage seems to tilt violently, and I stumble. I look up, and even in my delirious state I can see what an alarming visage the man has, with his dark hooded eyes and a scar the runs from the top of his grizzled eyebrow down to the bottom of his lip.

"You—have—to—stop!" I pant, feeling my eye begin to swell up. The pain is excruciating, and I can only imagine what it must feel like to Katniss, multiplied by at least twenty.

"Oh, yeah? Says who?" He lifts a muscled arm and strikes me across the face so hard that I crumple to my knees.

"Says me!" shouts Haymitch, striding on to the stage with the exaggerated, pompous swagger of the Merchant elite. "The name's Haymitch Abernathy. Perhaps you've heard of me."

The Peacekeeper's tough, authoritarian manner falters—even Peacekeepers are trumped by the status of the name Abernathy. "I beg your pardon Sir, but this boy interrupted the punishment of a confessed criminal."

"And what crime did she commit?" scoffs Haymitch, twirling an expensive looking ring on his finger as if he's so important that this sort of petty conversation bores him.

"Poaching!" says the Peacekeeper vehemently. "Poaching on Capitol land, punishment's thirty lashes."

"Poaching?" cries Haymitch in disbelief. "Hardly. This girl's in my hire, she shot that turkey on my private estate and I sent her to the butcher's with it."

"Is that—is that so?" says the Peacekeeper nervously, beads of sweat forming above his upper lip.

"It _is _so. Lucky the boy was here to stop you before you killed my best markswoman. And speaking of the boy," he says, jerking his head towards me. "I'm sure Lady _Greer_ will not be so happy when she finds out you've messed up her favorite grandson's pretty little face."

The effect of Haymitch's words is immediate. The Peacekeeper lowers the whip and begins stuttering his apologies to Haymitch, and the crowd, realizing that the show is clearly over, begins to dissipate. I fling myself towards Katniss, blinking blood out of my eyes, and begin tearing at the bindings on her wrists. _Oh God, oh God, oh God. Please don't let her die!_

"Someone get a board or something!" I shout hysterically. "We've got to get her out of here."

A bitter January wind is biting through the square and Katniss begins to shiver. I run my hands over her arms furiously to warm her up, but I know that I can't try to cover her from the chill with those raw wounds across her back. I'm glad that Haymitch springs into action because I feel like I've been reduced to a useless, hysterical mess. A Seam woman runs to find a board from her market stall and gives it to us with instructions not to say anything about where we got it, and a group of miner's help Haymitch to lift Katniss onto it. She groans in pain at the motion and I squeeze her hand desperately.

What was she thinking sneaking into the forest like that? She must have been so upset after last night at Gran's that she took off to her refuge first thing this morning. My mind suddenly flies back to this afternoon at lunch when I saw Aldo and Dorna conspiring in the cafeteria and the realization of what they have done hits me like a second blow from the whip. Aldo and Dorna know that Katniss is a regular poacher—both of their families used to buy her game. They must have alerted the authorities to her transgressions, gotten them to increase their vigilance at the fence. I feel my blood beginning to boil, but another moan from Katniss pulls me back to the situation at hand. I'll deal with Aldo and Dorna later, right now I have to focus on Katniss.

A spindly little Seam girl hurries over—I think I recognize her from school—Lindy, Lacey, something like that. "Oh my god!" she says with wide eyes. "Can I do something to help?"

"Do you know the Everdeens?" asks Haymitch sharply.

She nods her head.

"Go tell her mother that we're coming, Katniss will need immediate medical attention."

The girl squares her shoulders bravely and scurries off in the direction of the Seam.

* * *

A few moments later we burst into the Everdeen residence—we have made good time because Katniss is so light. Haymitch disappears immediately, presumably because his buzz is wearing off and this is something he's not equipped to deal with sober. Mrs. Everdeen meets us at the door, a starchy white apron tied over her faded housedress and a look of clinical concentration on her face.

"Leevy just told me what happened, I've sent Prim off for some medicinal herbs," she says pragmatically. "Bring her inside and lay her on the table."

This is the first time I've ever met Mrs. Everdeen, and though Katniss had described her as distant since the death of her father, I am still surprised by how dispassionate she is at the sight of her eldest daughter writhing on the sterile sheet that has been spread over the kitchen table. It is only when I look closely that I can see the shadow of dismay that flits across Mrs. Everdeen's face as she holds a slightly trembling hand up to Katniss' cheek ever so briefly, then snaps immediately back into healer mode. I suppose that everyone has their own coping methods.

"Can you save her?" I ask desperately, unable to hide my own grief so easily.

Mrs. Everdeen doesn't respond to my question, she just pours a kettle of boiling water into a bowl and begins cleaning the wounds with a steady, practiced hand.

"You're the Mellark boy aren't you?" she says, a strange closed expression on her face. "I wasn't aware that you knew my daughter."

I don't answer her either, just swallow hard as Katniss hisses in pain and arches her back against the sting of the antiseptic. Mrs. Everdeen places a roll of gauze between Katniss' teeth and she bites down hard.

"You've got to save her," I whisper.

Just then the door flies open and a distraught, snow-caked Gale flies into the room. He must have just gotten off work in the mines because he is still wearing his gray jumpsuit and his face is covered in a layer of coal dust.

"I came as soon as I heard," he chokes, rushing over to the table and balking when he sees the deep, angry red welts across Katniss' back.

"You keep your grimy fingers away from here, Gale Hawthorne, you hear?" admonishes Mrs. Everdeen. "These wounds have got to stay clean!"

Gale jumps away from Katniss in alarm and it is only then that he notices me standing off to the side of the table, my face swelling rapidly.

"_You," _he says dangerously, stepping around the table. "_I _should have been there protecting her!" he shouts, glaring at the welt across my face. "That should have been _me!"_

Katniss' mother puts a hand on Gale's shoulder. "Calm down Gale, dear. Katniss needs her rest…"

But Gale is too angry to hear reason. He takes a threatening step towards me, but I hold my ground, looking him straight in the eye. "This is _your _fault," he accuses. "I told her a hundred times it was a mistake to hang around you, but you—you _seduced _her with your fucking wide-eyed, boy next door bullshit. 'He's good,' she kept telling me. Yeah? Well look what your _goodness _got her now! She could have fucking died!"

"Gale, _language,"_ says Mrs. Everdeen, shocked.

I stand up straight and keep my head held high, but I don't try to deny anything Gale has said. He's right. He's right about everything. "I know," I say in a small voice.

"You _know? _You fucking _know?"_ Gale's eyes are practically bulging out of their sockets.

"Look, Gale," I say wearily. "There's nothing you can say that could make me feel any worse than I already do. So just beat the shit out of me, ok?" I throw my arms open wide to show that I'm not going to defend myself. "I'm begging you to."

Gale falters for a second and does not throw the punch is winding up for. I suppose my words must be baffling to him, or perhaps he can see that I'm dying inside.

Suddenly the door bursts open once again and a blast of icy wind sweeps the room.

"Here are the herbs you asked for mom!" says a rosy-cheeked Prim, hurriedly shedding her snow boots and rushing to her mother's side. "Greasy Sae wouldn't take any money for them. She heard what happened."

Prim shrugs off her too-big winter coat that has patches on both arms and latches on to her sister's hand, tears welling up in her eyes. "Oh Katniss," she whispers.

She stands there for a few minutes stroking Katniss' arm and whispering comforting words into her ear before she finally looks up and notices Gale and I facing off in the corner.

"Gale, what are you doing?" she demands. Then her gaze shoots up to my mangled face and her eyes widen. "Oh my God, Mr. Mellark! What happened to you?"

"It's nothing," I mumble as Prim flits over and begins to inspect my face with precocious medical professionalism. She hands me a snowball wrapped in a sterile white cloth. "You've got to keep snow on that and make sure the wound stays clean," she instructs me. "If bacteria gets in there you're going to be at risk for blood poisoning."

Her words make me wonder what would kill me faster: a blood infection or the festering guilt in my soul. I think I'll take the blood infection.

"Now are you going to tell me what happened?" she asks, and the trembling in her bottom lip reminds me that she's not a nurse at all, she's a little girl who's terrified that her beloved big sister might be at death's door. My eyes flicker to Gale, who is still staring daggers at me.

"Don't worry about me Prim. It's nothing," I repeat.

I hear Mrs. Everdeen's voice pipe up from across the room. "He stepped in front of the whip, Prim," she says quietly. "He may have saved your sister's life."

Prims lip is trembling violently now and when she opens her mouth to speak the only thing that comes out is an anguished sob. She launches herself at me and clamps her arms around my middle, her hot tears soaking into the front of my pullover.

Gale looks mutinous. Does he think I'm enjoying this? That I'm basking in the glory of being a hero? I am in agony knowing that it was my selfishness, my…_desire _for Katniss that drove her to recklessness and nothing will make me forget that. I press the snow against my cheek so hard that it brings tears to my eyes in an attempt to make the physical pain match what I'm feeling in the pit of my stomach. It doesn't even come close.

There is a knock at the door and everyone in the room freezes.

"Everyone stay calm," I say, making my way towards the entryway.

I open the door tentatively, half expecting a battalion of Peacekeeper to charge in and arrest us, but it is not Peacekeepers. It's Delly Cartwright.

"Delly?" I say incredulously. "What are you doing here?"

Delly is bundled up against the bitterly cold night, twisting one of her curly blond locks nervously. I hardly recognize her without her one-hundred-watt smile and sunny disposition. Her blue-green eyes flit up to the raw stripe across my cheek and she winces before unexpectedly shoving a few small vials of liquid into my hands.

"Here. Give this to—to Katniss. It's for my migraines—really strong stuff."

I gape at her, knowing without looking that the vials contain morphling, a heavily controlled substance that is difficult to find outside the Capitol and nearly impossible to afford. Delly is from old money like Gran and Haymitch, so she's always had the best of everything, including medical care.

"Delly," I breathe, weighing the vials in my hand, so tempted to take them. "You know I can't accept this—"

"No, Peeta! You _have _to," she insists, swatting my hand away as I offer it back to her. "Look, I—I've seen the way you look at her. And I guess I always hoped someday you'd look at _me _that way… but Peeta, you're a good person, you deserve to be happy." She falters, choking back the tears that threaten to spill over her freckled cheeks. "I don't care if she's Seam, you know? She makes you happy."

My heart clenches. Good old Delly, considerate through and through. Perhaps in another world, a world without Katniss, I could have grown to love Delly Cartwright—Delly with her indefatigable optimism and genuine love for people, even the insufferable ones—yes, a boy could do far worse than Delly. With difficulty I think back to our disastrous first date a year ago and all the inadvertent pain I probably caused her. I had taken her to the soda shop and we had sat on high stools, our knees just barely grazing, sipping on chocolate milk shakes. She was wearing a pretty violet dress with a floral pattern and I had tried valiantly to pay attention as she chattered on about school, and the spring dance, and how lovely our teacher Miss Ana looked at her wedding last Saturday.

I was trying so hard to forget about Katniss, to move on, and after all, it wasn't really so hard to like a sweet girl like Delly, was it? In fact, if I thought about it rationally, Delly should be far easier to fall in love with than Katniss anyway. Where Katniss was guarded and aloof, Delly was open and communicative, where Katniss was surly and distant, Delly was friendly and accessible. The list went on and on. So when I took Delly home that evening and she leaned up against the white picket fence, her eyes closed, I kissed her. I wanted so badly to feel something, that fire that ignited in my belly every time Katniss so much as looked at me, but all I felt was Delly's soft, wet lips on mine and the tickle of her curls against my cheeks.

I upbraided myself for days about the kiss. I felt manipulative, dirty, for leading Delly on like that when I knew that there was only ever one pair of lips I wanted to kiss. When I finally broke down and told her that I didn't think we should go on another date, she had just sighed and said, "There's someone else, isn't there?" I nodded slowly, and she didn't seem surprised. "I thought so." There had been a long, pregnant pause and then I began rambling on about how much she meant to me, how I had never wanted to hurt her, how I hoped we could still be friends, and Delly, true to form, had assured me that it was ok, that she understood. But the look of sadness and betrayal in her eyes when she turned to leave had spoken otherwise.

I am brought swiftly down to reality again by Delly's voice. "You should go back inside now," she says softly. "Katniss needs you." Then she reaches up tentatively to kiss me on the cheek and I can feel the tears on the ends of her eyelashes. "Goodbye Peeta."

She is halfway down the garden path when my throat finally begins to work and I call after her. "Someday someone will deserve you Delly, and when you find him, I want to be first in line to shake his hand."

* * *

I close the door gently and hand the morphling to Mrs. Everdeen. She gasps audibly when she sees what it is, but she doesn't ask questions, just takes a sterile needle out of a package and carefully injects Katniss with a dose of it. The effect is almost immediate and we all breathe a collective sigh of relief as we see the lines in Katniss' forehead smooth out and her clenched fists relax against the hard wood of the table.

"You should all get some sleep," says Mrs. Everdeen wearily, looking at Gale, Prim and I. "There's nothing we can do for her right now."

"I'm staying right here," says Gale stubbornly as if we should just try and stop him. Mrs. Everdeen sighs resignedly and takes Prim by the hand to lead her to bed, while I dutifully relegate the spot next to Katniss to Gale and retreat to a chair by the fire. Gale is the best friend here, not me. I'm just the one who nearly got her killed.

The hours pass slowly and I slip in and out of consciousness, the anguished sounds that escape Katniss' lips are like tongues of fire lapping at my heart, sending waves of fear undulating through my body.

"You need to stop blaming yourself," comes a familiar voice from the shadows and I nearly jump out of my chair. Haymitch. I must have drifted off to sleep for a moment and not noticed his reentry.

"I'll stop blaming myself when it isn't my fault," I say sullenly.

"It's _not _your fault," says Haymitch. "Listen boy, I don't claim to know our little Miss Everdeen all that well, but what I _do _know is that the girl doesn't do things she doesn't want to do. Too stubborn." I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. "Believe me, if she had wanted to tell you to take a hike, she would have done it long ago, but she _didn't." _

I don't respond. Somewhere deep down I know Haymitch is probably right, but right now no amount of reason is going to draw me out of the pit of self-loathing that I have exiled myself to. I look over at Haymitch's profile, shadowed in the dim light of the dying fire. He has a strong chin, aquiline nose and deep blue eyes. I suppose he must have been handsome at some point in his life, those sort of rakish, effortless good looks that girls go crazy for. It makes me wonder what happened to him.

"What was her name?" I murmur into the darkened room. "Your girl," I clarify.

Haymitch stiffens and then takes a long pull from his hip flask. He is silent for some time and then, finally: "Rosa," he says gruffly. "Her name was Rosa."

"What happened to her?"

Haymitch takes another swig from his flask and swivels around slowly in his chair so that he's facing me. "Lynched," he says abruptly, and the firelight reflected in his eyes burns like tamed but not yet extinguished rage. "We were just a little older than you are. She was Seam, I was Merchant. I wanted to marry her, but my family wouldn't hear of it. On the day I told them I didn't care, that I was running away with her, a gang of angry Merchants stormed her house. They tore her from her bed and hung my Rosa from a tree." Haymitch's voice cracks and he slams his fist down on the arm of his chair so hard that I'm afraid he'll wake Mrs. Everdeen and Prim in the other room. "She was _pregnant,"_ he chokes.

I feel the information soaking in slowly, like blood into a bandage, and I begin to shake as if my body is physically unable to accept Haymitch's words. Shifting my gaze to the center of the room I see that Gale has fallen asleep with his head on the table, his tall lanky frame bent almost double, his hand entwined with hers. I feel a pang seeing it, but it is quickly replaced by the thought of Katniss, shrouded in her white, threadbare pajamas, dangling from the end of a rope. It's better this way. Gale can make her happy, keep her safe, not that she really needs anybody's protection.

I decide to slip out while everyone is still asleep, it will be easier that way. I take one last long look at Katniss, her face pale against a bed of wavy, chestnut tresses, and she moans slightly in her restless slumber. Wrenching my stinging eyes away from her I turn to Haymitch, who is staring into the dying embers of the fire. "Well, I guess I'll be off then. Mother will be furious that I didn't come home, and she'll have heard the rumors of course—"

"Are you bloody kidding me, boy?" interrupts Haymitch, standing up suddenly. "You can't go home, you idiot."

I freeze mid stride, the back of my neck prickling. "What do you mean?"

Haymitch sighs heavily as if I'm the biggest dunce he's ever met. "You stepped in front of the whip, boy! You threw in your lot with the Seam. Look, I had the family name to protect me after what went down with Rosa. They couldn't touch the Abernathy's, but you're the _baker's _son for Godsake, And besides that, the object of your puppy-dog affections happens to be the daughter of a well-known rebel leader. Mark my words, boy, you set foot back in town and it'll be like you just willingly gulped down a handful of Nightlock."

The grim prognosis leaves me thunderstruck. I had been so busy worrying about Katniss that I hadn't even begun to think about what sort of repercussions _my _actions might have had.

"So what—what am I supposed to do?" I stammer.

"You disappear, that's what. I'm taking you and Katniss to a safe house tonight."

"Hold on there," I object. "You can't possibly think of moving her in this condition!"

"We either move tonight or we spend the rest of the hours until daylight fitting the two of you for nooses. You think the Capitol is going to take that stunt you pulled lightly? It was caught live on the national broadcast."

I see his point. In reality, my actions earlier were a visceral reaction born out of my love for Katniss, but the Capitol doesn't know that. To them it looks like a challenge to their policy of segregation, the lynchpin in their ability to tame the masses. Katniss and I made them look foolish.

I think of Bannock, he's just lost dad and now—_poof!_—I'm going to disappear without a trace. He might never find out what really happened, but he'll hear rumors of course, that I've been captured, tortured…killed. My throat feels like it is closing up, but I force myself to remain calm. Katniss would, if the roles were reversed, she would keep a clear head, work out a plan, see to it that everyone she loved was protected.

"What about my family?" I ask.

"We can't do much," hedges Haymitch. "But we'll put a watch on the bakery. I don't think the Capitol will bother them when it becomes clear they don't know anything."

"Who's we?"

"I can't tell you that here, it's not secure."

"And the Everdeens?" I press. "Where will they go?"

"I arranged for Mrs. Everdeen and Primrose to stay with the Hawthornes. They'll be safe there."

* * *

An hour later we have roused Gale, Mrs. Everdeen and Prim and told them to pack their things. Thankfully, they don't ask many questions. Mrs. Everdeen changes Katniss' bandages and we wrap her in several layers of blankets before transferring her back to the board we carried her in on. Outside we slide her onto Prim's old sled. Gale kisses her forehead fervently and Prim whispers something softly into her ear before they reluctantly turn towards the road leading to the Hawthorne residence.

"We'll send for you in the morning, Otilia," says Haymitch to Mrs. Everdeen, and then adds in the most reassuring voice he can muster. "Don't worry, we'll keep her safe."

* * *

It's a long journey to the safe house, and I can tell that Haymitch is taking us on a circuitous route to avoid the chance of being tracked. Soon the houses of both the Seam and the town fall away and I realize that we must be on the very edge of the district. We enter into a dense grove of trees, our footsteps falling silently over the snow covered earth, and I finally see a tall, cobbled house emerge out of the darkness, a tendril of smoke snaking out of the chimney.

Haymitch leads us up the path to the heavy wooden doorway and presses a button on an intercom. Then I'm surprised when he purses his lips together and whistles a plaintive four-note melody. There is a crackle on the other end of the intercom and a woman's voice returns the tune.

"A friend with friends," says Haymitch mysteriously, and I hear a lock click inside.

The door opens, and we are greeted by an older, maternal-looking woman who introduces herself as Seeder. Like Katniss, she has the dark complexion and silver-gray eyes that mark her as Seam, but I don't recognize her. She looks at Haymitch questioningly as her eyes flit over my blond hair and blue eyes, but she seems satisfied when Haymitch grunts, "Don't worry, he's one of us. The one I told you about." Her mouth opens in an "O" of realization as she looks between Katniss and I. What has Haymitch been telling her, I wonder vaguely.

Seeder then focuses her attention on Katniss' feverish figure, still strapped to the sled. "Poor dear," she sighs. I lift Katniss up as gently as possible and Seeder leads us up a narrow staircase and down a darkened corridor. "The girl will sleep here," she says gently. "Haymitch, you're down the hall, and you dear…"

"Peeta," I tell her.

"Peeta. Your room's right across the way," she says, but she must see the way I'm looking at Katniss as if I never want to let her go because she adds, "However, I'm sure for tonight you'll both be comfortable enough in here."

Seeder pulls back the sheets and I lower Katniss carefully down onto the bed so that she is lying on her side.

"Call me if there's anything you need," she says softly and closes the door behind her.

There is a bowl of water and a clean cloth on the bedside table, so I begin to gently dab the sheen of sweat off Katniss' face. Her skin is on fire, but her whole body is shivering. I draw the blankets over her, making sure that there is no pressure on her back and push the sweaty tangles of hair off her forehead.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper. And then, because I can't bear it any longer, I reach down and brush my lips lightly over her temple, her closed eyelids, and finally the corner of her slightly parted lips. She stirs at my touch and lets out a small whimper of pain.

I see her parched lips moving and I rush to pour her a glass of water from the pitcher nearby. "Here, drink this," I say, putting my hand behind her neck and tipping the glass up to her lips. She can only manage one small sip.

"Peeta," she rasps. I immediately take her hand in my own and rub small comforting circles with my thumb.

"Shh, it's ok, Katniss. I'm here. I'm right here."

Her eyes flutter open and take a moment to focus on mine. They are filled with tears that still refuse to fall. "Stay," she whispers.

I squeeze her hand in both of mine. "Always."

* * *

**Author's Note: Haymitch's girl is named for the one and only Rosa Parks, who played an instrumental role in the Civil Rights Movement in the US. The term "A friend with friends" is a password used by conductors bringing escaped slaves to safe houses on the Underground Railroad. Obviously the Underground Railroad and the Civil Rights Movement were happening at very different points in US history, but I have decided to meld aspects of both for the sake of this story. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. Let me know what you think!**


	8. Chapter 8

Over the next few weeks Katniss slowly recovers. Mrs. Everdeen comes by to check on her once a day, usually under the cover of night, and assures me that she is making excellent progress. I feed her clear broth three times a day and Mrs. Everdeen shows me how to clean the wounds and change Katniss' bandages. Whenever I do this I am always intensely cautious of respecting her modesty, but I can still tell that she is close to mortified every time I gently unbutton the back of her night dress and attend to the wounds. Not being a medical professional myself, I find it impossible not to blush when I accidently graze the side of her breast as I arrange the strips of gauze across her upper back.

"I could call Seeder to do this, you know," I tell her one day. "If it would make you more comfortable…"

I expect her to agree immediately, but I am surprised when she gives me a firm "No." "I mean, well, I _know _you," she explains. "I don't want a stranger…touching me." After that I don't ask her again.

One afternoon, about a week after the whipping, I am sitting by Katniss' bedside reading an old novel that I found in the safe house's library, "To Kill a Mockingbird," and I catch her gazing at me, an odd look on her face.

"Hey," I say, putting down the book. "I thought you were sleeping."

"I was," she says simply, an intense look still fixed on my face. Katniss reaches up one of her hands, wincing as the scabbing skin on her back pulls a little, and says, "May I?" I nod slowly, my throat going dry as cotton, as she traces her finger gently along the edge of the stripe on my cheek. The wound is beginning to heal, but it is still an angry red and purple color rimmed in a sickening shade of chartreuse. "Does it hurt?" she asks.

"Not much." Katniss gives me a look and I laugh. "Ok, ok, it _does _hurt a little."

"Why did you do it?" she says suddenly.

"Huh?"

"Why did you jump in front of the whip like that. You didn't owe me anything. If fact, most of the time I treat you like crap."

"Katniss…" I begin.

"No!" she says a little too loudly. "I—I'm distant and defensive and I hardly ever give you a chance. And all you are is nice to me. I don't get it."

Katniss is beginning to get upset and I see a shine of sweat break out on her forehead at the strain. I dip a fresh cloth into the water basin and dab her face gently. With Katniss still in such a fragile condition, now is definitely not the best time to divulge the full extent of my feelings for her, so I settle on something more esoteric.

"I don't know exactly why I did it. I think it's just what we do, you and I, protect each other."

I can tell by the way her eyes are boring into mine that she's not quite satisfied with my answer, but she doesn't push the subject.

"You look tired. When was the last time you slept in a bed," she says, changing the subject. "And don't try and lie to me," she adds as I start to shrug my shoulders as if it's nothing.

I smile sheepishly at her. "I don't know, about a week I guess."

"Come here," she says evenly.

"What?"

"Come here," she says again, more emphatically this time. Katniss pats the empty space on the side of the bed. I gulp. Get in the bed? With Katniss? While she's wearing that tiny little nightdress? There are so many ways this could go wrong. I slide into the bed carefully, trying as hard as I can not to jiggle the mattress and irritate Katniss' wounds. This is made even more difficult by the fact that I am also trying valiantly not to touch that vast expanse of bare leg from the middle of her thighs to her toes, a task that proves nearly impossible in the narrow twin sized bed. I hurriedly force my mind to recall the recipe for cheese danishes in order to avoid the shameful, ungentlemanly places it wants to go.

The only way we can both fit comfortably on the bed is if we are propped up on our sides facing each other, a fact that only serves to increase the agonizing intimacy of the arrangement. I feel like any moment the sound of my heart pounding in my chest will give me away, but Katniss doesn't seem perturbed at all. Perhaps it is the morphing, but for some reason Katniss, who normally has violent fight or flight reactions to the smallest hint of human closeness, is content.

"Are you going to ask me a question today?" she says, and the tickle of her hot breath on my face almost sends me over the edge. _Cheese danishes, cheese danishes, cheese danishes._

"What are you afraid of?" I know it must seem like a loaded question to her.

Katniss doesn't answer right away. She is drawing circles on the sheet, blissfully oblivious to the effect this is having on me as her finger loops around near my navel. "I guess I'm afraid of letting people down. Prim, my father…you, when I was stupid and ran off into the woods like that."

"You could never let any of them down, me least of all."

Katniss frowns and waves away my comment. "You should have seen how Prim looked after my dad died…like a skeleton. Her eyes! They were so empty, Peeta."

"Shh," I whisper, and I want so badly to reach up and stroke her hair, but I bite down the impulse.

"I almost failed him. I almost let them starve."

"But you _didn't,"_ I assure her.

"No, _you_ didn't," says Katniss, catching me off guard. "That day with—with the bread. You saved us." She casts her eyes down shamefacedly

"Katniss, how many times do I have to tell you. You've got to stop feeling like you owe me for that."

She studies my face minutely, as if she's got me under a microscope and is scoping for sincerity. "Fine," she says finally, and then adds, "But then _you've_ got to stop feeling guilty for what happened. It's my fault I got freaked out and ran into the woods. Mine. I make my own decisions, ok?"

"Deal," I say, giving her a lopsided grin. I settle down into the pillow and draw the quilt up over Katniss' shoulders. Now that I am finally lying comfortably in a bed, sleep is beginning to overcome me quickly and I feel my eyelids drooping, but just as I am about to drift off, I hear her voice once more, soft as the beating of a moth's wings.

"Peeta?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you for the bread and…for everything."

* * *

By the end of February Katniss is finally able to move around again and it is a relief to all of us. Mrs. Everdeen had prescribed at least three full weeks of bed rest, and towards the end of that time Katniss was so bored that she was becoming insufferable. There came a point where I literally had to drag my mattress off my bed and sleep in front of the doorway to her room to prevent her from trying to sneak off in the middle of the night.

Katniss is in much better spirits now, despite the fact that we still have very little freedom to roam. For safety reasons we are confined to the walls of the safe house, which I have discovered is actually situated on the far end of Haymitch's estate.

After hearing Haymitch's horrifying story about his girl Rosa I'm no longer surprised that inebriated old uncle Haymitch has joined the rebel movement. But what I don't know is how developed this movement really is. Is it just a few disgruntled miners from District 12, or is this something more? Obvious there is at least one person involved from a different district because Seeder tells us that she hails from District 11. Travel is strictly regulated in Panem, even for Merchants, so I've never been to District 11, but I know that it is primarily an agricultural community. I have a feeling that being Seam in Eleven might be worse than in Twelve because I've heard Gran ramble on about how in the other districts Merchants really know how to put Seam in their place. Apparently in Eleven domestic servants and orchard workers don't even get paid wages, they just work like slaves for substandard room and board.

Haymitch is being very mysterious about the whole thing. He stops by from time to time to check on us and whenever he does I press him for details, but all he does is grumble something into his bottle of liquor about how I'll find out when the time is right. By early March I am just beginning to think that no one will ever explain to us exactly what is going on, when something strange happens. It is nearly midnight and Katniss and I are up late playing a game of chess in front of the fire, when Seeder receives a delivery. Curious, I follow Seeder over to the table, and from the familiar smell wafting up out of the package, I can tell what it is before she even opens it. _Bread. _At least a dozen loaves, and a very diverse array. I recognize the dark bread made from ration grain most common here in Twelve, a salty sea-green loaf shaped like a fish from Four, and the square, bite-sized rolls from Three.

Seeder takes the loaves out of the package and begins arranging them on the tablecloth, her tongue just barely peeking out of her mouth as she concentrates. There seems to be some significance in the way she is laying them out, but as far as I can tell, it just looks like a very sloppily done bakery display. Finally, Seeder positions a last crescent shaped loaf from Eleven, and sits back with a satisfied sigh. She glances over at Katniss and my blank looks and smiles. "You two ready for your first council meeting?"

* * *

The next evening as we help Seeder set up folding chairs in the living room, she explains that the rebels use bread to communicate sensitive messages—the code is based on the number of loaves and the district they come from.

"That's very clever," I tell her, finishing up the last row of chairs. "Are you expecting this many people?"

As if to answer my question, the intercom rings and I hear several voices whistling the four-note melody. The first arrivals are a strikingly handsome bronze-haired man with green eyes, a twitchy-looking older gentleman with glasses, a formidable young woman with closely cropped hair, and Haymitch, who is followed by an odd looking woman with a bright pink wig and garish two-inch false fingernails…_Effie Trinket_? I recognize her from the Capitol Coal commercials where she gushes about the mines and goes on about how Seam citizens should consider it an _honor _to work in such a place. What is she doing here?

For about ten minutes there is a constant stream of people flowing into the house, and after several weeks of virtual isolation I happily greet the new arrivals. Katniss just stands awkwardly by my side and scowls, but she brightens a bit when she sees Gale come in and he gives her a little wave from across the room, mouthing, "Hey Catnip!" By eleven o'clock all of the guests have filed in to their seats and an impressively sober Haymitch has taken his place at the front of the room. At Haymitch's request Katniss and I slide into the first row next to the handsome bronze-haired man. He immediately flashes us a charming, toothy smile and leans over me to talk to Katniss. "Sugar cube?" he purrs seductively, offering her one.

To my relief Katniss gives him a scornful look that could take the varnish off wood. "No thank you," she says stiffly.

I stick my hand out to him and in a voice that is colder than usual I say, "I'm Peeta, this is Katniss. It's nice to meet you."

"Finnick," he says, taking my hand and shaking it. "Charmed." I notice that Katniss does not offer him her hand, just stares at him icily. She must think he's teasing her by acting in such an overtly flirtatious manner, and for once I'm glad that Katniss is so reliably obtuse about interpreting social cues.

Haymitch is now standing behind a makeshift podium and motioning for the crowd to quiet down, so I shoot Finnick a territorial scowl and focus my attention up front. "As president of the District 12 rebel council I would like to welcome our guests from other districts and say thank you for being here tonight," begins Haymitch. The thirty or so rebels smile and nod at him. "As you know, I am not a man of many words, so let's get straight to business. I have gathered you together tonight to introduce you to a special new pair of rebels—"

"Hang on a second," interrupts the formidable woman I noticed earlier. "I don't really feel comfortable have this meeting with _her _here," she says, jerking her thumb at Effie Trinket. "She's got Capitol written all over that horrid sequin dress."

A few other rebels in the crowd seem to agree with the woman because they begin echoing her concern: "Yeah, what's she doing here?" "We don't need Capitol scum mucking up our operation." Haymitch waves his hands, trying to maintain order.

"Look," he says, shouting a little over the murmur of the crowd. "Effie may be bat-shit crazy—" From where she is seated Effie gives an indignant little huff and purses her lips. "—but she's on our side, ok? And if we want to bring down Capitol Coal then having a high-ranking insider is going to be a major asset for us."

"He's right, Johanna," says the twitchy man, putting a bracing hand on her shoulder. "We need an insider, and besides, we have to remember that the Capitol's greatest weapon against us is class hatred. The more we can embrace our differences, the more power we have over Capitol control."

"Hear hear, Beetee," agrees a tall man with thinning hair and a slight potbelly, who I think I recognize as one of Haymitch's drinking buddies. "I seem to remember that y'all used to have a problem with old Haymitch here, too, and now he's president of the council."

"Satisfied Johanna?" asks Haymitch. The woman does not voice any further objections, but she crosses her arms across her chest and continues to shoot contemptuous looks at Effie. "All right then, moving on. Council, _if there are no further interruptions_," he says, looking hard at Johanna. "I want to introduce you to the key to the rebellion," says Haymitch with a sweeping gesture at me and Katniss. We both stare at him, dumbfounded.

"What? Behind scar-face and the little girl that looks like she'd like to put a dagger through your heart?" snipes Johanna.

Haymitch ignores her. "This is Katniss Everdeen." A murmur of recognition runs through the crowd at the name 'Everdeen.' "And Peeta Mellark.—"

"—The star crossed lovers from District 12!" breaks in Effie, unable to contain herself any longer. She jumps out of her chair and prances up to stand next to Haymitch, who gives her a withering look. "Isn't it romantic? It's just the sort of love story that we need to make the rebels e_xplode_ into action!" She makes a little fireworks gesture with her hands that looks like the sort of dance move you might see on Gran's favorite reality show, "Dancing with the Capitol."

My mouth falls open. _Star crossed lovers from District 12_? Katniss' face immediately turns to stone and even though she hasn't moved, I feel her drawing away from me as though she is backing away from a live explosive device. I swivel my head around and glare at Haymitch as if to say "you better not have known about this." He just shrugs his shoulders noncommittally.

I can feel the eyes of everyone in the room on us, and seeing the murderous look on Katniss' face, I can't help but thank God that she is not armed. "Look, I'm really sorry Effie, but you have to understand that Katniss and I are not—we're not _lovers,_" I manage to choke out, blushing in a way that must seem to contradict my words.

Effie just smiles knowingly. "Oh, come now Peeta, no need to be shy about it."

I look over at Katniss and she is starting straight ahead, a scowl plastered to her face. On the other side of the room I see Gale standing near a group of miners. The way he is gripping the chair in front of him tells me that he's not happy with this ploy either, but his expression looks resigned, maybe a little sad. Did Gale know about this beforehand? It looks like he might have been involved in the rebel movement for some time now, so I guess it's possible.

"Look, Effie, I'm really sorry, but this just isn't what you think—"

"Well, you stepped in front of the whip didn't you?" she interrupts me.

"Erm, yes, but—"

"I suppose you'd have to care about someone very much to do something like that, wouldn't you?"

"Of course, but—"

"Then I don't see the problem," says Effie brightly, straightening her pink wig and turning to the crowd of rebels. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the Star Crossed Lovers of District 12!"

There is scattered applause and the bronze-haired man, Finnick, let's out a loud wolf whistle. No one makes any effort to ask for our opinion on the issue.

"Hang on, what exactly does that even mean?" I ask indignantly.

"Oh, you know dear, just a few TV propos here and there to give the rebels a little motivation, put a human face on the rebellion." She puts a hand up in front of her face as if she envisioning it now. "Picture this: Two young lovers—one Merchant, one Seam—kept apart by the injustice of a cruel and outdated system of discrimination. It's great TV. They're going to _love _you!" she squeals. "So," continues Effie, clapping her hands as if she has answered my question rather than just making me more confused than ever, "I guess now there's just the matter of the Mockingjay, isn't there?"

I hear someone clear their throat pointedly at the back of the room, and Effie pauses. "How about you let me take it from here, Effie, if you don't mind." It is a man with gold eyeliner and a graceful, calming demeanor.

It looks like Effie clearly _does_ mind being interrupted, but she flashes him a large, artificially bright smile and gestures for him to take center stage. The fact that the man is from the Capitol and that he appears to be in on this whole "star crossed lovers" thing makes me want to hate him, but there is something in his eyes that makes this difficult to do.

"Hello, my name is Cinna," he says in a deep, smooth voice. "I was born Merchant but I have been a member of the Seam rebel movement for over two decades. It is a great pleasure to meet our two newest members." Cinna smiles at Katniss and I and continues. "Katniss, I must tell you that when people saw that broadcast of you getting whipped wearing that Mockingjay pin, _you_, the daughter of Jeremiah Everdeen, well, let's just say it made quite the impression," explains Cinna.

Haymitch breaks in. "And then when this idiot jumps in," he says, jerking his head towards me. "The crowds just went wild. The whole Railroad hasn't been able to talk about anything since."

"Excuse me, the Railroad?" I ask.

"Yes, sorry for not explaining properly" apologizes Cinna. "The Underground Railroad, to be exact. It's a rebel network that runs all across Panem, a matrix of safe houses and meeting rooms for runaway Seam and their Merchant supporters. But we can talk more about that later, for now I want to focus on the rebellion. The star crossed lovers angle will certainly gain sympathy for the movement, an important aspect that cannot be ignored." I see Effie smooth out her skirt with a self-satisfied smile. "But what we really need is a salient symbol for the revolution, one that will make the rebels dare to defy the Capitol, dare to fight the injustice…a symbol that will give them _hope. _And that is where you come in Katniss Everdeen."

Cinna shifts his gaze to her and I see her lift her head to meet his eyes. "I knew your father," says Cinna gently. A muscle twitches in Katniss' cheek, but she doesn't say anything. "To this day he remains the bravest man I have ever had the privilege to call my friend. Now, I know that I can't claim to know _you_, but from what I've heard, you take after him a great deal."

"I don't know," mumbles Katniss, her ears turning red.

"She does," chimes in Gale, and I see Katniss look up in surprise. "She's a great hunter just like her dad was and she's been taking care of her family single-handedly since she was twelve." I feel a great rush of warmth towards Gale for saying this. Maybe the guy's not really so bad after all.

"The boy also tells me you've got a voice that makes the Mockingjays go silent just like your old man," puts in Haymitch, but he must notice the questioningly look Katniss is giving me, because he adds, "Boy also thinks the sun shines out your ass and you sweat out sugar, so I realize it might be exaggeration—"

"No," puts in Gale again. "It's true what Peeta said."

"Well in that case, I can't think of anyone better to be our Mockingjay, sweetheart. What d'you say?"

Everyone is looking at her expectantly, and although her expression is steely and her fists are clenched, when I think back to that conversation we had about our fears, I know she won't let them down. After a long pause, Katniss rises slowly, almost regally, to her feet.

"I say yes," she says, lifting her high. "For my father I say yes."

* * *

For about a week after the council meeting Katniss avoids me like the plague. We have been granted permission to wander around the grounds as long as we don't leave the grove of trees surrounding the safe house, so she spends most of her time skulking around in the boughs of an elm. Gale visits as much as he can with his schedule at the mines and I can't help but envy his time with her. I wonder if they talk about me… considering the "star crossed lovers" fiasco, I guess it's probably better if they don't.

Several of the rebels from the meeting have moved into the safe house. To my displeasure I'm rooming with Finnick, and to Katniss' even great displeasure, she is rooming with Johanna. The twitchy man called Beetee, who I've discovered is some sort of tech wiz, and Cinna have moved in to the room across from Seeder's. To keep busy I bake bread every morning and cook most of the food for our dysfunctional little family. Finnick has taken to calling me "mum," but I don't care. One morning I even don a frilly floral apron that I found in the walk-in pantry and it gets an appreciative laugh from everyone at lunchtime. Katniss doesn't show up for meals, but the plate I fix for her always disappears some time later. I'm also sure to keep a plate of fresh cheese buns on the counter since I haven't forgotten that Prim told me Katniss favors them.

One day in early march, after chopping wood to stoke the three ovens that heat the safe house, I head down to kitchen for a drink of water. Finnick punches me playfully in the shoulder when I pass him in the hallway and advises, "Watch out, it's a clucking mess in there."

"Huh?" I say, but a second later Finnick's word play makes sense, because there is Katniss, elbow deep in blood, seated on a low wooden stool and grappling with a freshly plucked, headless rooster. It _is _a clucking mess. She looks up before I have even passed the threshold, no doubt tipped off by my notoriously loud tread, and then quickly drops her eyes without uttering a greeting. I approach with caution. This may be my only chance to talk to her about what happened at the council meeting!

"I haven't seen you around much lately." I say, trying to sound as casual as possible.

In response, Katniss selects a knife from the table and unceremoniously slits open the underbelly of the rooster. I gulp.

"You've been avoiding me."

There are squelching sounds as Katniss begins pulling out the rooster's organs and slapping them into a metal bowl.

I try another approach. "Guess that rooster was asking for it, wasn't he," I say, laughing nervously.

Katniss finally looks up at me, most likely to ensure that I don't miss the way she is rolling her eyes. "Well, are you going to help or not?" she demands, plopping the liver into the bowl where it quivers repulsively like a vile block of jello.

"Uh…" I flounder. I wasn't expecting an invitation to stay, so I'm caught off guard, but suddenly the prospect of gutting a rooster has never seemed so appealing. "Of course."

I draw up a stool and perch on top of it feeling uncomfortably large and wondering exactly what "helping" is going to entail. I don't have to wait long.

"Here. Hold this," says Katniss shoving the carcass into my unsuspecting hands. I can't stop the girlish cry of disgust that strangles free from my throat, and I think I see Katniss' lips quirk up in that signature smirk of hers. She wrenches apart the rooster's legs. "I need you to hold them taut," she instructs, then grabs the knife again and begins sawing through the skin and cartilage at the hip joint.

The rubbery skin is slipping out of my grasp, but I do my best to hold on to it, while simultaneously racking my brain for a way to gracefully broach the topic of the rebellion meeting. "So I guess we both know there's an elephant in the room…" I begin.

Katniss snaps the rooster's knee joint and I wince.

"Actually, I believe the elephant is tap dancing now. It's really, ah, hard to miss."

She is now see-sawing the joint back and forth trying to break apart the tough tendons holding it together, but I can tell by the way her head is cocked that she's listening, so I decide to blunder on.

"You should know that I was just as surprised as you were about that whole "star crossed lovers" thing. I mean, it was really inconsiderate of them to just—_thrust_ it upon us without asking us first. We were totally blindsided."

Katniss finally acknowledges me with a nod. "Yeah, we were."

I feel my courage mounting. "And you have a right to be mad about it, to hate it, to want to fry Haymitch in burning oil… but you should know that _I'm on your side here. _We can get through this." Katniss is twisting the leg joint more slowly now in a way that tells me she is listening carefully to what I have to say. I take a deep breath. "Katniss, I'm sure it must be obvious to you by now that I'm not going to have to—to _pretend _all that much with this ploy of theirs. I guess I mostly wear my feelings on my sleeve. But you also need to understand that I don't have any expectations. I mean, I know it's complicated—so I won't stand in your way—if you and Gale have a thing then—"

"We don't have a thing," interrupts Katniss. "We're just friends, Gale and I."

In spite of myself, I feel my heart buoying up at her remark. _We're just friends, Gale and I. _A chorus of angels has just started singing in my mind.

"Oh," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. "Ok, but still, you don't need to feel like you're tied down to something that—"

I stop mid speech when I notice the odd expression on her face. "What are you _smiling_ at?" I ask, perturbed.

"Oh, I don't know," she snorts, and an unexpected bout of laughter squeezes out the tension between us. "This is just such an odd conversation to be having while we're—" There is a sickening snap as the bird's knee joint finally tears apart. "—butchering a rooster," she pants. I look at Katniss, her hands covered in blood, a smirk on her face and then at the disgusted way I'm holding the rooster carcass as if it's a soiled diaper, and I burst out laughing.

"You should see your face!" she wheezes as she erupts into another round of hearty guffaws. "You look like Effie Trinket in a butcher's shop!"

We continue to laugh for a few moments and then as we're finally beginning to sober up I tentatively approach the tap dancing elephant in the room. "Speaking of Effie…"

"I'm not mad at you, Peeta," she says softly and she drops her eyes again.

"You—you're not?" I ask, bewildered. "But you've been avoiding me?"

She sighs heavily. "I know, and I'm…sorry." Wow, an apology. I'm so elated I almost want to hug the dead rooster for facilitating this situation.

"You don't have to be sorry," I say. "I think the prospect of starring in an Effie Trinket romance film would freak anyone out."

Katniss smiles crookedly at me and begins sawing off the rooster's other leg. "Well, if I have to do it," she says quietly, staring determinedly at the blade of the knife as it pulls back and forth. "I'm glad it's with you."

* * *

A sudden clap of lightening startles me out of a restless slumber later that night, and no matter how much I toss and turn, I cannot fall back to sleep. I throw my legs over the side of my bed, shuffle into a pair of slippers and make my way down the narrow staircase to get a drink of water. When I enter the living room I'm surprised to see a dark figure silhouetted by the bay windows, watching the rain coming down in sheets.

"Oh! Katniss. I wasn't expecting anyone else to still be awake." She whips around at the sound of my voice.

"Peeta, hi. The thunder woke me up… and I can't really sleep anyway," she confesses. Outside the wind howls and the rain beats against the windows.

"Same here," I say. "Anything in particular on your mind?"

It is hard to tell by the dim glow of the dying fire, but I think I she is blushing. She crosses her arms over her chest like she does when she's in uncharted territory, but the action is more self-conscious than defensive.

"Erm, I was just thinking that maybe I'm not really Mockingjay material."

"That's ridiculous," I say, walking over to her and massaging her elbows gently until she releases her closed off position and her arms hang down limply by her sides.

"No it's not. You're the one who can sway a crowd, you're the one who always knows what to say…"

"Hey, look at me Katniss," I say soothingly and her stormy gray eyes lift to my blue ones. "I'll be with you through everything. We're the Star-Crossed Lovers, remember?" I grin at her, but all she can manage is a thin, tight-lipped smile that could easily be mistaken for a grimace.

"See, that's the other thing. I'm not sure if I—if I even know what it would look like…to—to be in love," stutters Katniss, her cheeks the delightful color of summer's first strawberries.

I feel the space between us crackling like the electrical fence around District 12, and I'm not sure if it's the full moon, or the way she's standing there so open, so vulnerable, but suddenly, I am no longer afraid of frightening her away.

With a deep, unsteady breath, I talk a step towards her so that our toes are almost touching. "Well, I imagine if _I_ were in love, first I might do this…"

I take Katniss' left hand in both of mine, brushing my fingers over the top as I turn it over and then slowly bring it to my lips and kiss the soft flesh on the inside of her palm, just where it meets the wrist. Katniss shivers almost imperceptibly. "And then," I say, breathing heavily. "Then I would pull her closer…" I drop her hand gently and reach forward to draw her in by her hips, so that our bodies are flush against one another, my thumbs teasing the hem of her t-shirt where it just barely reveals the skin above her waistband. Katniss draws in a sharp intake of breath, but her eyes never leave mine. She looks skittish, like a colt just learning how to stand on it's own, but there is also trust there. "…After that, well, then I might reach up and just… brush her hair away from her eyes," my fingers skim across her forehead and tuck a silky tendril of hair behind her ear, "like this." I linger there when I feel her breath catch, and then drop my hand just slightly so that my fingers curl gently around the back of her swan's neck and the pad of my thumb plays across her cherry lips, parting them slightly. I feel myself begin to tremble as fireworks explode in the pit of my stomach.

"And then…I would want so badly to kiss her, but I wouldn't. I would wait until she was ready…until she knew for sure." I lean my forehead against Katniss', listening to the frantic beating of our hearts, breathing in the scent of her—fresh air, and pine and just a hint of lilac. "That's what I think love would look like."

Katniss closes her eyes and makes a soft contented noise in the back of her throat, almost like a purr. My legs turn to jelly.

"Yes," she breaths, "I think you're right, Peeta."

_Dong!_

We both jump and spin around.

"What was that?" I ask.

"The intercom," says Katniss. "Listen!"

And sure enough, over the intercom I can hear someone whistling the four-note melody just like Haymitch did on the day we arrived. Then comes a desperate barrage of knocking on the door and child's voice whimpers, "The friend of a friend sent me!" before breaking down into a fit of coughing.

"_The friend of a friend sent me," _whispers Katniss, chewing on her lip as she thinks. Suddenly she snaps her fingers. "It means an escaped Seam travelling alone! Go get Seeder, quick!"

I bound up the stairs to the second floor and by the time I return with Seeder, I see Katniss has already let the "friend of a friend" inside and is kneeling down in front of the tiny figure, peeling off her wet travelling cloak. The girl cannot be older than twelve, with dark skin and eyes and a head of thick, disheveled curls. But the thing I am really struck by is the way she is standing poised on her tiptoes, her arms held slightly aloft, so that she looks like a bird about to take wing.

As another ominous roll of thunder resounds through the cobblestone house, I wonder how such a little bird came to be flying alone in such an awful storm as this.

* * *

**Author's Note: Details on the butchering of roosters is taken from my experience in the Peace Corps. At the beginning of 3 years I was Peeta... now I'm Katniss. ;) Please review!**


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